


Beginning the Next Dream

by RikoJasmine



Category: One Piece
Genre: (it's Blackbeard), Ace Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Fix-It, Gen, Minor Character Death, Monkey D. family, POV Alternating, Pirate King Monkey D. Luffy, Single Dad AU, Time Travel Fix-It, Whitebeard Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 00:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18862240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RikoJasmine/pseuds/RikoJasmine
Summary: In another world, Garp has a second son, and three boys get a father.From a different point of view, an adult Monkey D. Luffy finds himself reborn in the past, and the former Pirate King gets a new perspective on his family.(A Time Travel AU where Pirate King Luffy raises the ASL brothers.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always wanted a “Future!Luffy raises himself” kind of fic, so I’m trying my hand at one. I’ve been stewing over this AU for months and it’s time to finally share it! This is definitely meant to be long and multi-chaptered, and who knows if I’ll actually get to the end, but I’ll go for as long as the muse takes me!
> 
> So everyone knows from the top, this is a gen family fic. Future!Luffy isn’t going to be paired with anyone. There’s some minor Shanks/Makino later on, but that’s it for non-canon pairings. There will be multiple time skips too, especially at the beginning.
> 
> Also, [here’s a link to some art of Future!Luffy I did](https://min-min-minnie.tumblr.com/post/178185389635/elevator-pitch-for-a-time-travel-au-ive-been), so you guys have an idea of what he looks like.

 

Not for the first time and certainly not the last, Monkey D. Dragon finds himself asking, “What have you done this time, Wyvern?”

 

His little brother is sitting on the floor of the living room, beaming up at him with a gap-toothed smile. The one-year-old doesn’t explain himself, but the broken table toppled over beside him speaks volumes. 

 

One of the wooden legs looks like it’s been snapped from a hard blow, splinters fraying from the fractured ends. Suspiciously, the break is at a height that his baby brother can reach if he stands up.

 

And Wyvern has been doing that a lot, now that he’s in his toddling stage. Dragon misses when all the baby could do was crawl around. Wyvern got into a lot less trouble back then—and broke a lot less furniture.

 

Meanwhile, their father lets out a loud guffaw, heaving himself up from the nearby armchair. Wyvern’s destructive phase is still new to him, as Garp has only recently returned to Foosha for the first time in a month. He ignores the felled table to instead swoop down and snatch up his younger son, who happily squeals as he’s raised over their heads.

 

“What a punch, Vernie!” Garp praises with enthusiastic delight. “You’re gonna grow up big and strong, huh? Maybe follow your old man into the Marines?”

 

The baby just laughs and repeats, “Dada, Dada!” which sends their father into a fit of paternal cooing and cuddling.

 

It’s an old, one-sided conversation, one repeated every time Garp deems to come home and check on his sons, so Dragon leaves them to it. He’s instead staring at the snapped table leg that was apparently done in by his baby brother, and he ponders silently to himself.

 

Dragon may be young, but he's no fool.

 

Monkey D. Wyvern is not a normal child.

 

It’s not a bad thing, but it’s not something he can deny. As his brother’s primary caretaker, the one who has spent every day with him from the moment he was first put into his arms _(_ __“_ Dragon, this is your baby brother, Wyvern! You’ll look after him, won’t you?” _ _)_ , Dragon is the only one in the position to really notice his brother’s oddities.

 

While not strange in and of itself, Wyvern is… an especially cheerful child. Bright-eyed and quick to smile, his presence alone makes Dragon’s grocery runs into town take much longer than necessary, for all the villagers who stop them to dote on both Dragon and the little brother he’s always toting around.

 

_ “Oh, what a happy baby! You’re doing an amazing job with him, Dragon—if you need anything, just give us a holler, alright?” _

 

Going from being a largely solitary only-child to a responsible pseudo-parent isn’t easy, and Dragon mostly credits his relatively kept sanity to Wyvern himself. Even without speaking in full sentences, Wyvern’s cheeriness has a way of rubbing off on people, and he’s barely ever fussy about anything. As for whenever he needs something, he doesn’t cry, but will certainly yell to get Dragon to pay attention to him. It’s always  _ purposeful _ in a way that Dragon isn’t sure is possible for other children his brother’s age; there’s something like real, cognitive awareness in his actions, as well as satisfaction behind his eyes once he’s got Dragon’s attention.

 

That being said, Dragon’s quiet existence is much  _ louder _ than it used to be. But the point is, Wyvern is almost  _ too _ easy-going. And too…  _ aware _ , for the young child that he is.

 

The second strange thing that Dragon’s noticed is that Wyvern has rather distinctive birthmarks: a thin crescent beneath his left eye and a rather deliberate-looking x-shape across his chest. They would concern Dragon much more if his brother had not been born with them, because at first glance... they almost look like scars. 

 

_ “Gives him character,” _ is all their father had to say on the matter, a proud gleam to his eye.  _ “He’s gonna be a fighter, this one.” _

 

Garp probably isn’t wrong about that. Dragon thinks about what his brother might get up to once he’s fully mobile, and he can already feel a headache coming on.

 

And speaking of things that Wyvern may be capable of… The real crux of his little brother’s strangeness lies right there. There are certain things he can do that one-year-olds decidedly  _ don’t _ do—things that the child development books that Dragon’s poured over definitely haven’t ever talked about.

 

For one, Wyvern has a nearly clairvoyant awareness of everyone in and out the house. Usually, it’s just the two of them at home, but he always seems to know when their father comes back to Foosha… even if Garp doesn’t call ahead of time. 

 

He knows when  _ anyone _ is about to come by the family house, for that matter. From the moment his neck gained enough strength to support himself, his little head perks up whenever someone is about to arrive, forewarning or not. Every time he does that, it’s eventually followed by a knock at the door by one of the local villagers, or by their father’s voice hollering for them to come greet him.

 

With burning curiosity and no little amount of incredulity, Dragon’s already tested it: he once asked one of their neighbors to come over at a certain time, all while Wyvern was sleeping. A half hour before she was due to arrive, Wyvern had perked up from his quiet doze to stare at the front door, like he was expecting something to happen. When the neighbor did eventually come, she explained that she’d come straight from town—a half hour’s walk away.

 

And Wyvern? Just smiled and waved a tiny hand at her in greeting, before carrying on with his usual baby business.

 

It’s.. uncanny. From the start, Dragon’s quickly learned to pay careful attention to his brother’s behavior, and not only for childcare reasons. With his tried-and-true accuracy, Wyvern’s intuition is probably better than an actual alarm system for letting him know when someone is coming to the house.

 

It’s this meticulous monitoring of his little brother that is the reason he’s able to devise a theory for the latest of Wyvern’s strange behavior: his capacity for destroying furniture in ways that babies definitely  _ shouldn't _ .

 

The living room table isn’t the first casualty; that honor went to the bars of Wyvern’s first crib. Dragon had gone in to check on his brother one morning to find a side of the crib bars splintered on the nursery floor. After frantically making sure Wyvern was unhurt and that there were no intruders in the house, Dragon didn’t have a clue how it happened.

 

That was until Wyvern first began to walk, and he once slammed his hand into the porch railing while trying to keep himself from falling. A shocked Dragon had thought he’d surely hurt himself, but Wyvern’s tiny palm had somehow punched straight through the thick, wooden planks. All without a scratch marking delicate baby skin.

 

“Oops,” is all Wyvern had said in his little voice.

 

As panicked as Dragon had been when Wyvern was born (how can he look after something so  _ small _ , so fragile and vulnerable as a newborn?), his brother has turned out to be a much  _ hardier _ child than he ever expected. Wyvern has grown quite a lot in his first year of life, but a baby isn’t supposed to be this strong. A baby isn’t supposed to be able to predict people coming to the house a half hour before they arrive. It just doesn’t make sense, but Dragon’s most telling clue comes from a split second before Wyvern ever hits and destroys something.

 

For just a moment, Wyvern’s little hand will shine black. And as unbelievable as the evidence may be, it’s all Dragon needs to come to a conclusion.

 

Before his brother was ever born, his father would take him into the forests of Mt. Colubo for combat training. Garp doesn’t do it much now, mostly because if Dragon leaves the house nowadays it’s with a baby strapped to his front, but he’s likely waiting until Wyvern’s older before continuing.

 

But what sticks in Dragon’s memory is a demonstration of an advanced technique, one that his father says is vital to fighting stronger opponents.

 

_ “This is haki,” _ Garp once told him after felling an enormous tree with one punch. Dragon had watched in fascination as his large fist shone a shiny black before fading back to normal.  _ “Remember those logia Devil Fruits? You can’t even touch those users without haki. We’ll work on unlocking yours today—doesn’t hurt to start early.” _

 

Garp has drilled plenty of information and training into his eldest son, and even though Dragon isn’t fighting anyone just yet, he’s putting his knowledge into use now. 

 

Wyvern is still so little, but it’s haki he must be using. Dragon knows what he saw, and it’s definitely the armament haki their father is so fond of.

 

Dragon himself is in the beginnings of haki use, leaning more toward armament than observation, but evidently Wyvern already has both. It explains his ability to smash through surfaces that should otherwise hurt him, as well as his highly accurate knack for sensing visitors. Wyvern is a born natural, it seems.

 

It’s a daunting, amazing realization. Wyvern’s small now, but what will he become in the coming years? He’s already strong for his age, so how will he be after some proper training? It will certainly be interesting to see—and it’s comforting to know that his baby brother already has a substantial foundation for being able to protect himself someday.

 

Though… their father’s training regimen is not for the weak of heart. Nor is it very child-friendly—not that it ever stopped him from tossing Dragon into it. He thinks of his little brother having to go through that unforgiving gauntlet himself, and he frowns deeply.

 

Their father has been a faithful Marine since he was a young man, and having children has not changed that. The newspapers have been lauding him as “Garp the Hero” after his last campaign during the Rocks Incident, and there is likely a promotion in his future. He’ll surely be piled on with even more duties from here on out. 

 

He’s a hard taskmaster and a dutiful officer. Unfortunately, this all leaves him very little time to be a father.

 

That ship had sailed for Dragon the moment Garp began training him to fight. Of course, there are moments of paternal pride when Dragon does something successfully or shows evident improvement in his combat skills. But it took Wyvern being born for their father to regain some of his parental gentleness, a soft touch that Dragon had forgotten he’d even had.

 

Dragon glances back to Garp, who is back in his armchair and pulling several silly faces to make Wyvern laugh. He doesn’t think their father has noticed Wyvern’s haki just yet, noting only that his youngest is unusually strong in the physical sense. If he did, Dragon’s sure he’d be yelling it from the rooftops… before setting up Wyvern with a strict training regimen as soon as possible.

 

The thought of it feels like losing something important. His little brother’s childhood innocence, maybe—the realization that their father isn’t perfect, that he won’t be here to protect them, that they can’t rely on him like other kids can rely on their parents. Dragon realized it himself a long time ago.

 

He's still young, though it doesn’t feel like it sometimes, without his mother and father and having to act as both for his brother. But he would rather have this than have Wyvern taken away to be raised by someone else. He doesn’t want to imagine the scenario where it would come to that.

 

In the end, he’s all Wyvern has. And he's all that Dragon has, too.

 

Their family is a nebulous thing. If not for Wyvern, Dragon might have already left this island to search for other horizons. He’d certainly been thinking about it. But he still has purpose here, in a younger sibling who needs him, and in Wyvern are the tethers still holding their small family together.

 

Thoughtful, Dragon wanders over and perches himself on the arm of Garp’s chair, gazing down at Wyvern. His brother looks so small from where he’s being held against their father’s chest, and he gazes back at Dragon with soulful dark eyes. 

 

He’ll have to grow up someday, but this is a moment Dragon wants to remember. The three of them are here together, and he knows very well that they won't always be.

 

“Hey, Dad?” He reaches out and traces the curved birthmark under Wyvern’s left eye, murmuring, “Wyvern’s strong, but he can stay a baby a while longer, can’t he?”

 

Garp looks at him quizzically, a little thrown-off by the question, but he smiles and ruffles Dragon’s hair. Dragon bows his head at the weight of his father’s large hand, eyes still on his brother.

 

“Of course he can! But since Vernie’s walking now, just be happy that you can tote him around while he's still small enough to let you. He’ll be running circles ‘round you in no time!” Garp teases. Though when Dragon’s solemn expression doesn’t change, he measures him in silence for a moment before adding, “... Are you okay here, taking care of him by yourself? You’re doing a great job, but you're still only sixteen, Dragon. I could move you two out to Marineford, have you both closer. I’d still be out on assignments, but I’d be around more often. How about it?”

 

Dragon only needs a few seconds to think on the offer. He imagines himself and his little brother placed in an empty house bereft of childhood familiarity, their father still gone, and this time surrounded by strangers Dragon doesn’t know he can trust.

 

As far-flung as Dawn Island is, it’s peaceful and private. Compared to the chaos of the Marine base, as well as the scrutiny he and Wyvern will surely be under as the children of a celebrated Marine hero, Dragon thinks he and his brother are fine where they are.

 

He shakes his head. “No, I like it here in Foosha. And Wyvern’s a good baby—I can handle him myself.”

 

His father hums in acknowledgment, bouncing Wyvern gently in his arms. Wyvern is looking at the both of them with curious intent, like he’s actually listening to what they’re talking about. And for all Dragon knows, he really may be.

 

“You’re a good big brother, Dragon,” Garp eventually says, handing Wyvern over to him. “I’m glad he has you.”

 

Dragon holds his brother close and buries his nose into dark, wispy hair, not saying anything in response. He feels Wyvern’s tiny fingers curl into his shirt.

 

The weight of responsibility settles on his shoulders like the weight of the baby in his arms. For now, Dragon resolves to do the growing up for both of them.

 

... 

 

When it comes down to it, being reborn as his own uncle is probably the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to Luffy so far.

 

And Luffy knows weird. He’s been to the Grand Line, after all—been through Paradise and the New World, all the way to Raftel and back again. After all his many adventures, he’s experienced plenty of bizarre things as a man who once claimed the title of Pirate King.

 

He’s never expected anything in particular to happen after his death. To see Ace again, maybe, in his most hopeful scenarios. But instead, Monkey D. Luffy closes his eyes and somehow returns to consciousness in a much smaller body, with blurred vision and limited motor function, having no idea where he is or what is happening.

 

Then he hears the familiar voice of his Gramps, who has since passed away, and Luffy wonders if this is some kind of afterlife. Being greeted by Gramps and a possible Fist of Love isn’t the  _ ideal _ scenario for whatever post-death reality has in store for him, but Luffy’s missed the old man and so doesn’t think to complain.

 

But through the disorienting haze, he feels himself being passed along to another set of arms and hears Gramps say something completely unexpected.

 

“Dragon, this is your baby brother, Wyvern! You’ll look after him, won’t you?”

 

And when he comes face-to-face with a young man who he’ll eventually recognize as the teenage version of his own father, it’s right then that Luffy realizes that wherever and  _ whenever _ he’s ended up, he’s not actually Luffy anymore.

 

His new name is pretty cool, though. He can’t fault Gramps for that. Or, he supposes it’s  _ Dad _ now. Weird.

 

Even while retaining the memories of his past life, Luffy adjusts to becoming Monkey D. Wyvern with relative ease. He’s always been one to roll with the punches, and as strange as his new situation is, this is no different. As far as he knows, there was never anyone named  _ Wyvern _ in his family; maybe that’s why it’s not so hard to carve out a new place for himself with that name. 

 

In his heart of hearts, he’ll always be Straw Hat Luffy, the man who became King. But at the same time, it’s odd to think that someday, probably, there’ll be _another_ Luffy—one who’s not actually him but still _kind_ _of_ is. It makes his head hurt just thinking about it, so he grabs onto his new name and lives in the moment as he usually does.

 

It’s slow going in the beginning. Wyvern spends his infant years trying to get mobile again, trying to get his speech back through uncooperative vocal cords, all while enjoying the company of his teenage before-father and the rare visits from his now-father.

 

This Garp is… different from the old man he remembers. For one, he’s got a head of thick black hair, a dark beard, and far less age lines on his face. He’s in his prime, his body and fists still at top strength—and yet he’s softer with Wyvern than he ever was with Luffy and his brothers. Maybe it’s just because Wyvern is still a helpless baby, and everything might change once he’s older… but it’s nice to see his Gramps like this, more unburdened and with warmer eyes.

 

He’s still largely absent, but that’s no surprise. To Luffy-now-Wyvern, the mental transition from  _ Gramps _ to  _ Dad _ is the more difficult work in progress.

 

By contrast, it’s far easier to see this young version of Dragon as his brother. The tall, tattooed man to whom Luffy once loosely attached the term ‘father’ is nowhere in sight; they were never close to begin with, and the gulf between them remained wide as they fulfilled their own respective dreams. Though they did interact more as the years passed, Dragon was always more Sabo’s father than Luffy’s. 

 

But they’re not Straw Hat Luffy and Dragon the Revolutionary anymore. Right now, they’re Wyvern and Dragon, the young sons of a Marine, two brothers who live in sleepy Foosha Village.

 

The Monkey D. Dragon whom Wyvern spends every day with is still only a boy, who mindfully looks after his baby brother and does it with startling efficiency. He’s serious and quiet and looks at the world with an evaluating gaze like he’s already thinking about the future and all it can be. 

 

But in this time and place, there are no grand plans, no fate-of-the-world consequences looming over their heads. They’re just two boys growing up in the East Blue. Wyvern relearns to speak by babbling at his older brother, takes his first steps with Dragon’s hands ready to catch him if he falls. He regains control of his rampant haki as best he can in such a small, uncoordinated body, and though he’s sure that his observant brother has already figured him out, Dragon keeps his abilities quiet.

 

Dragon takes care of him and lets him wreck things and allows him to fall asleep in his arms. He dutifully shoulders the responsibility despite being so young himself… and he always looks at his little brother with a protective warmth that reminds him keenly of Sabo and Ace. 

 

There’s a spark of the future Revolutionary in his eyes, a flicker that will someday blaze into an inferno. Wyvern already knows that one day, he’s going to have to let him go.

 

But for now, this Dragon belongs to him. He has a big brother again, and Wyvern loves him like he always loves the people he holds dear—unwaveringly, loyally, and with his whole heart.

 

… 

 

“I like this one!”

 

A five-year-old Wyvern proudly presents a curled shell to his brother, holding it up between small, sand-covered fingers. Dragon leans down to get a better look at it before nodding.

 

“The red’s a nice color,” he agrees. “You checked that there's nothing still living inside?”

 

Wyvern looks, holding it up and peering into the smooth, curved opening. He replies, “It's empty!”

 

Obliging, Dragon holds out their bucket, and Wyvern drops the shell in with the other various items he’s scavenged from the beach. He splashes further along the shallows to continue the search; he can hear his older brother calling out a reminder to shuffle his feet in case of stingrays.

 

Spreading out his haki, Wyvern can sense where they are, burrowed and hidden beneath the sand. Dragon is undoubtedly aware of this too, but he's more on the protective side and warns him anyway.

 

Wyvern shuffles along in the sand and glances down at his bare feet, submerged in the sea as rolling waves wash past his short legs. This is something that certainly surprised him, the first time Dragon took him to the beach near their house.

 

Wyvern can swim. Or, rather, he can touch seawater and not feel weakened.

 

On one hand, he’s thankful for it. Ecstatic, even. There had been so many times in the past where he wanted to swim but just physically  _ couldn’t _ , and he now has the opportunity to do so. The beach is very close to their house; he can go whenever he feels like it.

 

However… his absent Devil Fruit aches like a missing limb. Wyvern keeps having to remind himself that he's not made of rubber anymore, that the unyielding solidness of his body is his new “normal.” He’s not going to harmlessly bounce if he happens to fall, and for both Dragon’s peace of mind and Wyvern’s own well-being, he’s very glad that he at least still has his haki to keep himself from getting hurt.

 

It’s been five years since he awoke in this new body, but sometimes, he still instinctively reaches out to stretch his arm like he used to and has to swallow his disappointment when nothing happens. Even if he wanted to, there’s nothing that can be done about it right now. He has no idea where the Gum-Gum Fruit had been before the Red-Hairs got a hold of it, and the day that Shanks will come to Foosha Village is still a long time coming.

 

It makes him wonder, though: just how old is Shanks, anyway? They may actually be around the same age this time. It makes him grin, the thought that a tiny Shanks is currently running around somewhere out there, someplace across the sea.

 

Thinking back to that time with the Red-Hair Pirates, Wyvern wades along in the water, singing Bink’s Sake under his breath as his eyes scan the water for any interesting things for him to collect. A school of tiny fish dart in flashes of quicksilver around his ankles, before they zip away into deeper waters.

 

A shadow falls over him, and still humming to himself, Wyvern looks up to see that Dragon has caught up with him. His older brother is twenty, now: tall and lean and sharp-eyed, dark hair feathering over his shoulders. He’s not quite there yet, but Wyvern can imagine where his future tattoo might go, slashes of red across the left side of Dragon’s face.

 

Though, he doesn’t look much like that man right now—dressed in a loose t-shirt and rolled-up trousers that are wet around his calves, and toting around a bright red children’s bucket in one hand. He just looks like Wyvern’s older brother.

 

And in older sibling fashion, Dragon arches an eyebrow at Wyvern, who’s still singing to himself. He asks, “Isn’t that a pirate shanty?”

 

Wyvern grins up at him. “Yep!”

 

He doesn’t bother asking how a child like Wyvern even knows it. Instead, he huffs an amused breath and says, “Don’t let Dad hear you singing that. I doubt you want to sit through another lecture about how great the Marines are.”

 

True to form, as soon as Garp deemed his youngest son old enough, he’s been trying to nudge Wyvern onto the career path of joining the Marines. Dragon isn’t exempt from it, either, being a capable young man not afraid of a fight. Still, most times he just ends up holding Wyvern like a human shield (“Who’s going to take care of Wyvern if I’m gone? So, no.”), while Wyvern just laughs and echoes his brother’s reply: “No way!”

 

Defeated only for the time being, Garp certainly isn’t giving up anytime soon. But Wyvern’s sure that they can stall him out until the time comes to make a break for it. It’s worked before, after all.

 

Responding to Dragon’s comment, Wyvern makes a disgruntled face and says, “The Marines have too many rules! I don’t wanna join them, no matter what Dad says.”

 

“You and me both,” his brother mutters under his breath, swinging the plastic bucket as he wades along in the surf beside him. Considering, he adds with a wry smile, “Besides, you’d be a terrible Marine. You’d clean out the food stores of every base you go to within the day. Disobey every commanding officer, cause destruction of property wherever you go. And you wouldn’t even care.”

 

Wyvern may only be five, but Dragon already knows him so well. He laughs, splashing ahead in the water before turning around to face him again.

 

“Y’know, maybe it  _ would _ be fun,” he says thoughtfully, and Dragon fondly shakes his head.

 

“For Dad’s remaining sanity, it’s for the best we keep you here. Not that he realizes it yet,” he sighs. He then takes a measuring look at him, and after a moment, he says, “So, future Marine hero is out. Any other ideas of what you want to be when you’re a grown-up, then?”

 

Wyvern opens his mouth to blurt out the reply he’s given so many times in a lifetime before, an instinctual  _ “I wanna be King of the Pirates!” _ balancing precariously on the tip of his tongue… before he stops in his tracks. Despite the concept of a  _ Pirate King _ not even existing yet, there’s something else entirely that makes him lapse into silence.

 

_ Oh, right, _ he realizes.  _ I’ve done that already. _

 

He’s already claimed the title of Pirate King once before. It was a long, dangerous, fantastic adventure—one that made all the hardship and struggle worth it in the end. It was the journey of a lifetime that he will never regret. Wyvern supposes he  _ could _ do it again, set out to sea and hunt down Raftel on a second voyage around the world. Of course, he’d have to wait until he’s older, but... it still doesn’t feel right.

 

Much like last time, he can’t do it alone. He only got so far because he had other people helping him, and they were not just  _ any _ people. If he’s going to set sail again, then the only ones he’d ever want to do it with is his crew—his friends who went on the journey with him the first time. But they’re not here with him now, are they?

 

It’s as simple as that. For Wyvern, the answer is clear: he’d sail for Raftel again with the Straw Hats of the Pirate King,  _ his _ Straw Hat Pirates, or not at all.

 

He knows what that means for him. It feels… strangely empty, the realization that he’s not sure what to do with his life.

 

As Luffy, he spent the majority of his life with a dream, relentlessly hell-bent on becoming the next Pirate King until one day, it came true. As Wyvern, though… he has no such goal. No direction, no purpose. It's disorienting, this feeling of the future stretching out beyond his sight. Of not knowing what he's here for, because the dream he always sought after is already behind him.

 

He opens his mouth again to answer Dragon’s question, and he haltingly replies, “I… don’t know.”

 

Dragon frowns. He’s always been attuned to Wyvern’s moods, and he doesn’t fail to notice the lost look on his face. His older brother approaches him and cups the back of Wyvern’s head, running fingers through his hair in a comforting gesture. He tells him, over the rush of ocean waves, “... Hey. That’s okay. You don’t have to decide everything now—you’ve got time.”

 

Wyvern slowly nods, curling a fist into Dragon’s trouser leg. His hand is wet and covered in sand, but his brother doesn’t protest.

 

Time. It’s at the root of what’s happened to him, isn’t it—having somehow fallen through time to a past where Monkey D. Wyvern was born and Monkey D. Luffy doesn’t yet exist. Somewhere in the future that they forged together, he’s left behind many people he loves, many people who love him in return.

 

What would this world have been like, if his friends had been reborn with him? He can’t help but think that it would be nice to see them again.

 

Wyvern wonders what they're doing now, wherever they are. He only hopes that, unlike the crew of the first Pirate King who scattered to the winds after Roger’s death, the Straw Hats will have at least stayed in touch with each other. Stayed together, despite losing their captain. After being together for so long, through thick and thin, the good times and the bad, he can't imagine them ever being apart.

 

Thinking on this, he recalls the memory of Rayleigh in the glow of firelight back on Rusukaina, when Luffy begged for stories about Gold Roger to keep him entertained during those long nights on the island. Rayleigh always had another tale about his captain, told with affection and exasperation and nostalgia wrapped into one. Even if Rayleigh never said so out loud, the old man who taught Luffy so much still bore a lingering weight that he could never quite shake, even after so many years.

 

Although Rayleigh had met others he could rely on, his connections to his former crew were gone. He took his love and grief upon his shoulders and carried his memories of Roger alone.

 

Luffy's friends mourned, he knows that. From the unreachable place where he is now, he can only hope that they'll still be together. Pain is easier to bear when there are others to share the weight, after all—and how many times have the Straw Hats learned that lesson?

 

_ “It's going to hurt,” _ he'd told them before, when his years of reckless battles were finally catching up to him, when his days were growing ever shorter.  _ “Don't leave each other alone, alright? It’s gonna be okay.” _

 

It won’t be okay, in the beginning—it never is. He's sure it did hurt when he slipped away for good. But he's also sure that, one day, his absence won't hurt them so much.

 

_ “Remember the things that you still have!” _ Even through time and space, Jinbe’s wisdom rings true even here.

 

His friends still have each other. They’ll be alright.

 

Wyvern glances up at Dragon, who is gazing back at him with concern. Wyvern just smiles widely at him and hugs his brother’s leg, burying his face into his hip. Dragon seems a little surprised, but Wyvern can feel him place an arm around his small shoulders in return.

 

Right now, he has Dragon, and he has their father. One day, he’ll surely have other people in his life to love and live for as well. And although they won’t be the same people he’d once known, maybe in some fashion he’ll have his friends again, too.

 

Only time will tell.

 

_ “What do you want to be?”  _ Dragon had asked. Right now, Wyvern doesn't have an answer.

 

The dull roar of the ocean waves in his ears and the sunlight on his skin are familiar, though, like old companions who continue to greet him like they always have. Pirate King or little boy, adventurer or not, it's a reminder that he's still here. Even with his past and future wiped clean, he's alive again, with many tomorrows still to see.

 

Where will he go from here? He doesn't know, and that's okay. 

 

Tugging gently on his hand, Dragon leads them back to shore, asking him what he wants for lunch. Wyvern grins up at his brother and blurts out, “Meat!” which makes Dragon sigh in his long-suffering but fond way. They return home, trailing sand and wet footprints behind them.

 

There will be time to dream again. For now, just existing is enough.

 

… 

 

Their house sits on the very outskirts of Foosha, down a dirt path that leads past the rolling farms and the fields of turning windmills. It’s sandwiched between the tree line of Mt. Colubo’s dense forest on one side, and a sloping, grassy hill down to the beach on the other. It’s a quiet, secluded area; if one isn’t actively looking for it, they might miss the house entirely.

 

Wyvern isn’t used to staying in one place for so long. He misses the sway of a ship, the feeling of constantly being in motion, being propelled into some distant unknown across the sea. The house is no Thousand Sunny, but he can imagine it as being like a ship in its own way—anchored in its time and place, a moored, solitary vessel floating quietly in the chaos of the world. A safe harbor, a shelter from the storm.

 

It’s his and Dragon’s, the place where his family has settled and nested, so he doesn’t hesitate to claim it as home.

 

This is something of a first for him, living in an actual house. There’s a kitchen and a living room on the first floor, as well as an extra room that’s being used for storage. Upstairs are the bedrooms—their father’s, Dragon’s, and Wyvern’s—though he often still manages to wiggle his way into Dragon’s room at night to curl up next to his older brother. Though Dragon has been weaning him into sleeping in his own room, the sound of someone else’s breathing has always been a comforting sound. Wyvern’s never liked being alone.

 

Today, as evening falls and bedtime approaches, Wyvern takes the bucket of things they’d collected that morning up to his room. Seating himself next to the window beside his bed, he turns on a lamp and sifts through the bucket’s contents, holding them up to the light for inspection.

 

“Setting those up in here?” he hears Dragon ask. In his periphery, he can see him entering the room to sit on the edge of the bed, just observing him.

 

“Uh huh,” Wyvern confirms, rolling each item in his hand in thought. With careful consideration, he places his treasures on the windowsill, lined up in a neat row side-by-side. 

 

A shard of jade green sea glass. An old coin with a weathered face. A smooth, lopsided sphere of a stone. A dented, bent tea spoon. A tiny glass bottle without a stopper. A scrap of ruined leather binding from a lost book. A rusted bullet shell casing. An ivory-white animal tooth. An iridescent fish scale just slightly smaller than Wyvern’s palm.

 

And a curved white shell striped with shocks of red, placed in the center.

 

The window faces the east, where he can see the dark ocean stretching into the horizon to blend into the stars. In the morning, the light of the sunrise will come through the window, falling first on the motley crew of bits and bobs sitting together on the windowsill.

 

The thought makes Wyvern smile. He knows, wherever his friends are, that the sun will rise on them again, too.

 

Satisfied, he dives into bed with a battle cry and nearly rolls right off it. Dragon, ever prepared, catches him by the shirt and plops him back onto the bed, practically wrestling to tuck him in. As always, his brother does his best to settle an excitable little boy down for the night, even though he’ll likely soon escape from the covers anyway.

 

Wrapped up and snug in his blankets, Wyvern exclaims, “Dragon, tell me a pirate story!”

 

… 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My lovely friend Conking drew art for this fic!!](https://condraws.tumblr.com/post/184980796788/please-read-beginning-the-next-dream-by) Con, thank you so much, you’re wonderful. <3
> 
> *Warning for mentions of human trafficking this chapter.*

Wyvern swiftly dodges his fist, and Garp grins as his youngest son dances away from his range. From across the forest clearing, he can see Wyvern’s head cocked a bit to the side, blindfolded eyes unable to see his opponent but his observation haki undoubtedly trained on Garp’s every move. He stays light on his feet, ready to avoid or counter whatever comes next.

 

No hesitation, no doubt. The kid is only eight, and he’s already advanced this much. Garp knows quite a few adult Marine soldiers who Wyvern would wipe the floor with easily.

 

Isn’t that something? His Vernie’s always been rather ahead of the curve, Garp is pleased to note… At least when it comes to battle prowess, anyway.

 

Well, no one’s good at _everything._ That’s why Marine platoons exist, after all. Wyvern can one day be the wrecking ball of his own squad—just like his old man.

 

“Good!” he praises, lowering his fists and straightening his stance. “You’ve gotten much faster!”

 

Wyvern copies his actions, adopting a relaxed posture as well. He pulls up his blindfold a bit to peek out at him. “Are we done yet?” he whines. A hungry gurgle from his belly is audible from across the clearing.

 

Garp waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead.”

 

Wyvern cheers and immediately rips the blindfold off completely, flinging it to the side before bull-rushing the campfire where Dragon has been roasting his latest catch. Garp meanders over as Dragon hands a skewer of meat—crocodile, it looks like—over to his ravenous, grabby-handed brother. Wyvern practically inhales it before going for more.

 

He’s a growing boy, Garp nods to himself. He’s gonna need every scrap.

 

As he sits down on a log across from his sons, he notices Dragon eyeing him, as his eldest tends to do whenever Garp has taken Wyvern aside for some combat training.

 

“What?” he asks, leaning closer to the campfire and taking a meat skewer for himself. Taking a generous bite, he says around his mouthful, “Vernie doesn’t have a problem with overestimating his reach anymore—you know how bad it used to be. And his observation and speed are improving. I was hiding my presence completely, and he didn’t get hit at all this time.”

 

Dragon just narrows his eyes in response, and Garp sighs.

 

His eldest is a bit overprotective of his little brother. Garp supposes that’s kinda his fault; Dragon has always been rather intense about things that have caught his attention, and leaving a kid in his care is the longest his attention has ever been caught. Dragon, wayward and unruly, seems to have been centered by the responsibility of raising his brother. Meanwhile, Wyvern is ever a wild child, but he’ll for the most part behave under Dragon’s direction.

 

It seems like a good arrangement, and it’s worked out so far. In leaving them both here in Foosha, Garp can only hope that the good has outweighed the bad.

 

… That being said, as Dragon always watches from the sidelines whenever it’s his brother’s turn for training, he _will_ retaliate if Garp ever lands a hit on Wyvern. As much as Garp will protest _“It’s just training!”_ he’ll usually end up having to fend off both of his kids—Dragon in a protective blitz, and Wyvern in unapologetic glee at having his brother join the fight.

 

They’re something of a force fighting side-by-side. They can hold him off for quite a while, and although Garp has never fought them in total life-or-death seriousness, that’s still not something he takes lightly. There are plenty of pirates and other dangerous brigands who couldn’t say the same.

 

What potential they both have. Now, if only he can find a way to convince them into joining the Marines, _then_ he wouldn’t have to worry about his kids going rouge somehow.

 

And speaking of going rouge…

 

Garp finishes off his skewer and jabs the stick into the dirt, casually saying to his sons, “So. I’ve been hearing reports from Goa about some kid causing a ruckus in the high town. Care to tell me what that’s all about?”

 

Dragon doesn’t even blink at the accusation. Meanwhile, with round cheeks stuffed with food, Wyvern looks back at him with big, innocent eyes.

 

“Vernie,” he deadpans.

 

Wyvern quickly swallows his mouthful and responds in protest, “We were just playing ninja! Climbing around the rooftops and stuff.”

 

“We?”

 

“Me n’ Dragon,” his youngest clarifies.

 

Of course. Dragon may be more well-behaved now with a younger sibling to set an example for, but that doesn’t mean he’s been tamed completely. Garp’s eyes slide over to him with raised brows, and Dragon coolly gazes back at him.

 

“To be clear, the point of the exercise was to not be noticed,” he explains. “The high town has a lot of opportunities to practice—plenty of dark shadows, you know. Wyvern just sucks at stealth and subtlety.”

 

“Hey! I can be sneaky if I want!” Wyvern protests. Dragon just glances at him, obviously doubtful, and he juts out his bottom lip at him. “Can too!”

 

“If it got back to Dad, then it wasn’t sneaky at all.”

 

Garp’s _“Hey!”_ goes ignored as Wyvern simultaneously reiterates, “I can do it!”

 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” is all Dragon says, and Wyvern pouts.

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Garp sighs, “Just… _play ninja_ somewhere else, okay? I don’t need a bunch of stuck-up nobles breathing down my neck for something my own kids are doing.”

 

Dragon shrugs noncommittally, while Wyvern earnestly exclaims, “No one’s gonna see me next time, promise!”

 

“That’s not—ugh.”

 

Why do his _“don’t do this”_ warnings somehow always turn into _“don’t get caught”?_ He loves his boys dearly, but he swears they’re gonna be the death of him.

 

“There’s something else I wanna know,” he adds, scratching his beard. “Dragon, when were you going to tell me that you pulled Vernie out of school?”

 

Nonplussed, Dragon hands another skewer over to his brother, who takes it eagerly. As Wyvern digs in, he pipes up, “School’s boring! And the other kids can’t play with me.”

 

Garp’s almost afraid of what that means. “... _Can’t?”_

 

“The other children can’t keep up with him,” Dragon elaborates once again. “They like him fine, but his abilities make things a bit… unfair. Hide-and-seek, tag, tug of war… you can imagine how games like that might go.”

 

Garp can indeed imagine it, and he winces. His prodigiously haki-powered child would absolutely _obliterate_ at any games like that, against a bunch of East Blue civilian children with no combat training to speak of. The entire point of enrolling Wyvern in school (and “school” is generous for what they have here in tiny Foosha Village, it’s really more of an informal tutoring and babysitting gig run by some local elderly folks) was to have him make some friends his own age. He really only ever socializes with adults, Dragon and Garp himself included, and Garp’s been worried if that might affect him negatively in some way.

 

“Can’t you take it easy on them, even just a little bit?” he suggests, wearily rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t need to be using haki for that, you know. It’s kinda overkill.”

 

“But it isn’t as fun that way!” Kicking his feet back and forth on their log, Wyvern grins over at his brother. “Dragon can keep up, though. Playing tag and hide-and-seek and stuff is way more fun when everyone’s using haki!”

 

“It becomes less playing and more actual training, when you’re involved,” Dragon responds flatly, and Wyvern laughs.

 

“Those are the best kinds of games!”

 

Garp mulls over the idea himself. As much as he may not want to admit it, he can see the benefits—both of his sons diligently training their haki abilities, expanding their reservoirs and prolonging the time they can keep it activated. All without even leaving the island and stirring up trouble.

 

Conceding, Garp asks, “So, I’m assuming you’ve taken up teaching him then, Dragon? What’ve you gone over so far?”

 

“Hm. Stealth training, I’ve already mentioned—still a work in progress. Combat is a given. Foraging and wilderness survival, he’s very good at those.” Dragon glances thoughtfully at his brother. “Some navigation and sailing as well. He’s not so great at those ones, but passable.”

 

“I didn’t tear the sail last time! Or snap the ropes,” Wyvern announces proudly.

 

“You do usually put a bit too much strength into it. You’re doing well.”

 

Wyvern beams at him, and Garp stares. This is all good to hear, but somehow, that’s not quite the academic curriculum he was picturing. Though admittedly, it’s a bit hard to picture his sons actually doing something _normal_ like typical civilian youths do.

 

Again, he can guess that’s his fault. With the circumstances as they are, Garp supposes that he’ll just have to accept it.

 

Tentatively, he asks, “... What about reading and writing?”

 

“Yes, those too,” Dragon agrees with a nod. Garp sighs with relief—maybe they’re still a little normal, after all. Dragon then goes on, “Though actually getting him to sit down and pay attention is where his teachers couldn’t handle him. Wyvern just really has no respect for authority.”

 

Before Garp can comment on that—and perhaps lecture them both on the importance of listening to one’s higher-ups—he belatedly notices Dragon’s pleased smirk.

 

His eldest adds without even a hint of remorse, “I’m very proud of him.”

 

Garp gapes at them both. Completely disregarding him, his sons exchange a solemn nod in rebellious solidarity. However, Wyvern’s serious mein quickly cracks with a stray giggle.

 

It devolves into full-blown cackling, though, as Garp descends upon Dragon to shake him by the shoulders. He cries out, _“What the hell are you teaching him to be, huh?!”_

 

Dragon just lets it happen, remaining entirely unmoved by his father’s distress. Meanwhile, a carefree Wyvern continues to laugh.

 

Utter brats, the two of them—never mind that one is already grown. Garp despairs, because at this rate, both his kids are going to be absolute troublemakers. Lawless _hooligans!_

 

He can feel himself getting more and more gray hairs at the very thought of it.

 

…

 

Dadan realizes she’s made a grave mistake in the three seconds it takes to recognize exactly _who_ she and her bandit gang have just attempted to rob.

 

In her defense, this particular road to the Goa Kingdom gates has lots of foliage to obstruct one’s view of the path—and one’s view of anyone hiding _along_ the path, which was the entire point of lying in wait here for some unfortunate sap to pass by, but Dadan digresses.

 

Her lookout had spotted a hooded adult dragging along a ridiculously large, tarped package, with a little kid trotting along ahead. The kid seemed like an easy target for a quick ransom job: just grab them, demand everything of value from their caretaker, make the exchange and go. Easy.

 

It’s just Dadan’s luck that this time is not at all easy.

 

“Hi, I’m Wyvern!” the boy dangling from her grip happily greets her. He doesn’t seem at all concerned about the large, threatening knife she has to his throat. He cheerfully asks, “Are you my big brother’s friend?”

 

“ _Friend_ is a bit of a stretch,” she hears Dragon reply in a low voice, and Dadan feels a cold sweat break out across her forehead. She can tell that her gang are all similarly frozen behind her, all of them struck with the immediate, sinking realization of _oh, shit._

 

Monkey D. Dragon. On the outside, he’s just a young hunter who occasionally sells animal pelts in the markets of Goa. He keeps to himself and is quietly polite and unobtrusive, in a way that makes people’s eyes slide off him and forget he even exists. For such a striking person, he blends into a crowd with effortless ease.

 

In reality, though, this guy somehow has dirt on everyone in the kingdom, criminals and commoners and high-born alike. Curiously, he is no informant for hire—Dragon doesn’t care for the potential rewards, and keeps what he knows to himself. This man is a shadowy figure who can strike a person down with a single spill of secrets, is a meticulous hoarder of information who can disappear like a ghost… but for what purpose, Dadan can’t begin to guess. He just knows many things that he shouldn’t, and no one is even aware of it.

 

The only reason Dadan herself knows so much is because the two of them cross paths distressingly often. Her den of bandits operate in the forests of Mt. Colubo, where it’s not uncommon to get scared shitless by suddenly coming across Dragon stalking the local wildlife. Witnessing him hunt can be pretty terrifying to see—an enormous tiger or bear or some ferocious beast that’d send any reasonable person running for the hills, instead running desperately away from a guy who is armed with nothing but his own hands and moves _way_ too fast to be normal. Dadan just gives her people the instructions of _stay the hell out of that guy’s way,_ because she’d rather not be in it.

 

If it’s Dadan herself who happens to find him, they’ll talk a little sometimes. Though Dragon isn’t much of a talker and has a rather intense stare, usually leaving Dadan to nervously make one-sided conversation. The only time he’s been outright hostile was their first meeting (where she tried to intimidate and fight him for encroaching on the Dadan Family’s territory, which on her part was very much a _mistake),_ but ever since then they’ve just been on neutral terms.

 

As Dragon said, they aren’t really _friends_ , just… general acquaintances, at best. They’re the same age but from different backgrounds: she’s the leader of a budding gang of mountain bandits, he’s a Vice Admiral’s son with some unusual extracurricular activities, playing at being a normal civilian.

 

At one point, Dadan had worked up the nerve to ask why he hunts so much, running around the dense jungle with so many dangerous animals lurking about. Dadan set up shop here to protect herself and her people; she can’t imagine why anyone would keep hanging around Mt. Colubo if they didn’t have to.

 

With an enormous crocodile slung over his shoulder, Dragon had effortlessly carried the beast away, only replying, _“I’ve got a kid to feed at home.”_

 

Which is in no way the response Dadan had expected, but she supposes it’s as good a reason as any. Nobler, really, for a guy whose hobby is digging up people’s dirty secrets. It just took her off-guard to hear that Dragon is a father.

 

In the present, though, she quickly reevaluates the situation. Dragon’s kid is actually his kid brother (and another son of Vice Admiral Garp, she is horrified to realize)—who apparently has no sense of self-preservation because the boy seems inappropriately happy even as she holds a knife to his throat.

 

“Dadan Family,” Dragon quietly greets the bandits, even as he stares at her with an increasingly menacing glower. “Dadan. If you would let my brother go, please. Now.”

 

“Shit, sorry, so sorry! Didn’t realize it was you and yours, Dragon! Honest mistake!” Panicked, she drops her knife to the ground and practically tosses Wyvern away from her.

 

Or, at least, she tries to. The boy is now clinging to her like a baby koala, grinning up at her in a way she would rather die than admit is cute.

 

“H-hey, you brat!” she yells, trying to pry him off but failing. The kid’s grip is stupidly strong. “Get offa me, go back to your brother! I’m not robbing you anymore, so get!”

 

“If you’re Dragon’s friend, then I’ll be your friend, too!” Wyvern exclaims, hugging her. “We can come visit you and hang out! It’ll be fun!”

 

Oh, no.

 

“No, no, no, no! Absolutely _not.”_ Dadan already feels mildly terrorized whenever she happens to find Dragon in the forest, and lives in constant fear of ever meeting his father. She absolutely does not need the presence of the littlest Monkey on top of that. “We’re bandits, kid—we’re no babysitting service! And we don’t do things for _fun.”_

 

“But you _can,”_ the boy counters. He says it in a playful, childlike way, but to Dadan, for some reason it feels more like an impending sense of doom.

 

Luckily, Dragon decides then to step in. He plucks his brother away by the collar and holds him in the air when Wyvern struggles with a whine. “Wyvern, that’s enough. Didn’t you want to prove how well you can sneak? I still need to sell these pelts first, so let’s get going.”

 

“Oh, right! Yeah, let’s go!”

 

Just as easily, Wyvern relaxes. Dragon sets him back down on the ground and seems to take a moment to examine his brother for injuries. Wyvern endures it with an exasperated huff that clearly says _stop being so fussy, I’m fine._ Nevertheless, he lets him do it. Meanwhile, Dadan is just in shock from seeing her stoic not-quite-friend be so _parentlike_ before her very eyes.

 

Sweating, she glances nervously at Dragon. After completing his inspection, he levels her and her bandits with a long, measuring look.

 

After a chilling beat of silence, he calmly states, “No harm, no foul. Though I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon, Dadan and company.”

 

Floundering, she demands, “W-what the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

 

He doesn’t respond to the question. With a hand on his brother’s back, he simply nods to them, shoulders his package once more, and resumes their walk to Goa. Wyvern turns and waves back at them, smiling widely.

 

He cheerily calls out, “See you guys later!”

 

Dadan can only weakly wave back, barely holding back a shudder as they all watch the two brothers walk away. They both only said their farewells, and yet…

 

Why does it feel like an omen of things to come?

 

“.... Uh, boss?” Magra asks meekly when they’re finally out of sight. “Do ya think we gotta move bases now?”

 

Grumbling, Dadan picks up her knife from the ground and resheathes it on her waistband. She says, with more confidence than she feels, “I’m not gonna live in fear of these goddamn Monkeys! Mt. Colubo is _our_ territory—we’re not going anywhere.”

 

“Y-yeah! That’s right!”

 

Her bandits seem heartened by her words, quickly recovering from their shaken states to stand at attention. Dadan nods to them decidedly before pointing back to the bushes and trees lining the road.

 

“Alright, back to your hiding spots! Someone else might be coming this way any minute!”

 

“Yes, boss!”

 

…

 

Dragon is washing some vegetables in the kitchen sink, and he glances up to see the sky reddening into evening through the window. Behind him, Wyvern is drawing at the dining table; he can hear the scratch of colored pencils against paper, the soft humming of a distracted child waiting for dinner.

 

Separating cabbage leaves from its head, he considers whether his brother will eat it at all. Wyvern isn’t very enthusiastic about most foods other than meat, but he’ll usually eat greens and fruits if needled to. Begrudgingly, of course. Reminding him of the threat of scurvy tends to work—Wyvern will get an odd look on his face before going ahead and eating the offered thing.

 

It’s not like Wyvern has ever seen someone suffer from scurvy, but the warning seems to be enough. As long as it keeps him healthy, really.

 

Without turning around, Dragon flickers out his haki to sense his brother’s energy. He’s calm and in a mellow mood, it feels like, occupied for once with a quiet activity. He can tell that Wyvern can sense him doing so, but his brother doesn’t acknowledge it out loud—Dragon does this often enough, so they both continue their respective activities in companionable silence.

 

Turning the sink off, Dragon glances outside again at the reddening sky.

 

Foosha Village is a peaceful place to live in. He’s been able to raise Wyvern without much incident for the past several years, which he is certainly grateful for… and yet, with each passing year, he grows increasingly aware that there are places that are not so peaceful, where people are not as kind. Where greed rules above all.

 

He doesn’t even need to leave Dawn Island to find an example.

 

On his excursions to Goa alone, he hears things that people whisper in hushed conversations, uncovers what they keep in their most hidden closets under lock and key. Darkness lurks in so many corners of a beautiful city that is only spotless on the surface; corruption festers like an open wound on its underbelly. It’s true that the lands beyond the gates are crawling with outlaws and criminals, but Dragon has been quietly peeling back the kingdom’s pristine mask to find the depravity lurking beneath.

 

Diverting funds, bribery, extortion. Conspiracies and lies upon lies; murders and their subsequent cover-ups. Ignoring and even outright exploiting those who have no way of fighting back, and getting away with it all with no repercussions that actually matter.

 

He’s even found a human trafficker once, who lured in the poor from the Gray Terminal with promises of paid work and instead shipped them off for auction in the Grand Line. It took some effort, but Dragon managed to get rid of him—planted some shipping records in the right place for the right people to see, and the so-called merchant and his small network were apprehended.

 

If the man had been a noble, however… Dragon is entirely too aware that it may not have worked at all. A noble may have called in some favors, bribed the Marines sent to arrest him to look the other way, been given the benefit of the doubt if only for the circumstances of his birth… and it makes Dragon’s blood boil.

 

With the shipping records that he’d found in the trafficker’s private home office, he’d also found photographs of a few of the unfortunate victims. One had only been a little boy, the child of a poor, hopeful farmer seeking employment. And just from looking at the boy’s frightened face and the chains bearing him down, Dragon felt despair and a burning, overwhelming rage—because in that moment he thought of Wyvern, of how the boy in the photograph was already too late to save, and that he would tear the world apart if something like this ever happened to his little brother.

 

In the end, Dragon is only one man. As much as he may try, as much as he may want to, he can’t change Goa by himself. And the Goa Kingdom is only a microcosm of the world itself, a fragment of a much larger puzzle: across the sea, there are many places that are even darker, with people who are given no choice but to drown in it.

 

They should have a choice. They should have the chance to fight back. And if they can’t, then someone should protect them.

 

But he is only one man.

 

This is where he and his father diverge paths, on those rare, late nights where Wyvern has already been put to bed and their father is home to debate with, out on the porch over drinks. _“You can’t do it alone, Dragon,”_ his father would say tiredly, pouring himself more sake. His face was always shadowed in the lamplight hanging over their heads. _“You see why I keep telling you boys to join the Marines? I know you want to help people—that’s just who you are. But you’re just one man, and the Marines are an organized, established force. You could do a lot of good there. They’re meant to help people, protect them.”_

 

_“But do they really?”_ Dragon would bitterly reply.

 

Garp could only ever respond with, _“They should,”_ and that alone is reason enough why Dragon will never be a Marine.

 

Outside, the sky is red now, and it will only grow darker. Shadows stretch longer; the night creeps ever on. In their home, though, the rooms are brightly lit. In the warm light, his little brother is drawing a picture at the kitchen table, happy and safe and free—and Dragon will fight with everything he has to keep it that way.

 

“Dragon?”

 

He stalls in his thoughts, brought back to the present by Wyvern’s voice. He can feel his brother’s haki presence brushing against him, ever curious. Dragon realizes that he has a cutting board with vegetables on the countertop and a knife in his hand, but he’s yet to cut anything at all.

 

“Hm?”

 

Wyvern asks, “You okay?”

 

Dragon puts the knife down on the cutting board before turning around, leaning against the counter as he looks at his brother. Wyvern gazes back with an even, searching stare, a colored pencil still grasped in one hand but no longer paying attention to his drawing.

 

“I’m fine,” Dragon tells him. “Just thinking.”

 

“You want to go on an adventure.”

 

Wyvern says it as a statement, an observation, not a question or an invitation to play. It’s uncanny how easily he can figure him out. Though, when his brother says _adventure,_ Dragon knows that he means it on a grand scale—sailing the high seas, discovering new lands, making unexpected friends, that sort of thing.

 

Dragon doesn’t deny it, but he responds, “Not that kind of adventure, Wyvern.” He doubts that trying to find like-minded people who also want to shake the social hierarchy to its foundations will be _fun,_ like Wyvern always insists adventures should be.

 

“Yes, it is,” his brother says, sitting up straight in his chair. Meeting Dragon’s eyes, he specifies, “You want to set sail, don’t you?”

 

It’s not at all accusatory, even though acknowledging the statement will confirm that Dragon will leave him someday. Dragon has always known that he will eventually, when the time comes that Wyvern doesn’t need him anymore… but right now, Wyvern is still a child. As much as Dragon yearns to change the world, he could never tell his kid brother, _“Yes, I want to leave you behind.”_ He could never do that to him.

 

“Someday,” he simply replies, turning back around to resume dinner preparations. “But not now. You’re still too small, and you’d die without me.”

 

“I’m not weak!” Without looking, he can hear the frown on Wyvern’s face. “I can look after myself!”

 

Dragon doesn’t point out that he’s only eight. Instead, he begins chopping a bell pepper and says, “Can you, though? The last time you tried to cook something, you nearly killed us both. I had to run you _and_ myself to the doctor’s after that.”

 

He hears him say in a quiet, sheepish voice, “... Oh, yeah. I can roast meat, though.”

 

“I’m sorry to say that you can’t live on just meat.”

 

Wyvern grumbles, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he circles back to his earlier point, insisting, “You gotta leave Foosha to go after your dream, right? If you want to, then you should go!”

 

“Then how will you survive without me?” Dragon flatly responds, not really expecting an answer.

 

Nevertheless, he gets one. Entirely serious, his little brother replies, “It’s okay, I’m sure I’ll find a way!”

 

Dragon stops chopping. And sighs.

 

He turns back around to find Wyvern upright on his knees in the chair, looking like he’s about to stand up on it and hurtle himself toward the front door to wrestle a tiger or something to prove himself.

 

It’s also entirely unnecessary. Wyvern’s fighting skills are the last thing Dragon is concerned about.

 

Mishaps tend to happen in most household chores that his brother attempts: laundry ends up torn from over-enthusiastic scrubbing, dishes are shattered, brooms are snapped, et cetera. Wyvern is earnest when he tries to help out, but it usually turns into a minor disaster. He's just not very good at these sorts of things.

 

With time and some nudging, though—well, maybe a _lot_ of nudging—Wyvern might yet improve on his basic life skills. Not perfect, but. Enough.

 

His brother is still young. He’ll get it eventually.

 

“Well, then, get over here.” When Wyvern just stares at him quizzically, Dragon gestures with a pointed tilt of the head toward the produce sitting on the counter. He says, “If you’re just going to die because you don’t know how to look after yourself properly, then I may as well stay here forever. Is that what you want?”

 

Wyvern gapes at him for a moment before jumping to his feet. “No,” he responds. “You should go have adventures! Set sail and be free!”

 

Watching him, the corner of Dragon’s mouth quirks up into a smile. He’s still only one man—but even if he is, if he can raise his brother to be a strong, capable person who can look after himself and even go on to look after others…

 

Well. That’ll be a job well done, won’t it? And then, perhaps afterward… only then could he leave him and not worry.

 

“Alright. Then you’ll have to learn at least the basics of running a household before I go, so let’s get started with this. Maybe someday you’ll be able to cook an actual dish that won’t immediately poison me.”

 

“Hey! That was _one_ time!”

 

“Then let’s make sure it _stays_ one time, hm?”

 

…

 

A ten-year-old Wyvern jogs up to the mayor’s house, waving enthusiastically at the man sitting on a swing bench out on the porch. He can see that Woop Slap has a baby in his arms as he slowly rocks back and forth.

 

He calls out, “Hi, Woop Slap!”

 

The mayor of Foosha Village looks over at him, and he blinks blearily as Wyvern jumps up to cling to the porch rails and brightly smiles at them both.

 

“... Ah, Wyvern,” he greets somewhat belatedly, seemingly holding back a yawn. Meanwhile, the baby is happily waving back at Wyvern and giggling. “Good morning. Where’s your brother?”

 

“It’s market day in Goa,” he responds. Dragon usually uses market days as opportunities to _gather resources_ and _do reconnaissance,_ as his brother likes to say, but Wyvern doesn’t bother mentioning that. He sometimes goes with him, but today it seems that Dragon didn’t want his little brother being underfoot for whatever mission he’s planned out.

 

Wyvern can be sneaky if he tries! It’s just that he usually prefers the _direct_ approach.

 

Meanwhile, Woop Slap just nods along.

 

“Oh, yeah. I suppose it is,” he says. “You just wandering around town by yourself, then?”

 

“He told me to come find you!”

 

At that, the mayor sighs and turns his face up heavenward, as if he’s asking for patience. Wyvern can hear him muttering the words, _“What am I, the mayor or the town’s babysitter?”_ Nevertheless, he looks at Wyvern again and pats the spot next to him on the bench. He says with resignation, “Come on up, then. You can help me look after Makino today.”

 

Wyvern grins and hops over the rails. Woop Slap stalls the bench’s swinging, and once Wyvern’s plopped down next to him, he hands the wiggling baby over. Makino’s arms are already outstretched, tiny hands making grabby motions at him even as Wyvern reaches over and scoops her to his chest.

 

He’s thought so before, but it’s still so odd to see the kind woman he once viewed as an older sister or aunt-like figure to be so… _small._ He has many fond memories of her from when he was Luffy—from his early childhood to Shanks and the Red-Hairs to the time she spent with him, Ace, and Sabo when they were young—so translating all that to this little baby with downy, dark green hair is a little jarring. It’s similar with Woop Slap, too; the cranky old man who was always yelling after Luffy and his brothers is a much younger man in the present. Maybe still a little cranky, but nevertheless different enough for Wyvern to feel a slight sense of vertigo whenever they meet.

 

Still. He’s always happy to see people he cared about before, here in his second go-around at life. Makino and Woop Slap here in the village, Dadan and her bandits up on the mountain… Even if they don’t remember what he does, Wyvern still treasures his time with them. New memories are always being made, after all. His world is still growing, expanding little by little with each year, and he’s glad that they’re here with him as it does.

 

“Wy!” Makino loudly exclaims as Wyvern holds her. Her small fingers reach up to pat repeatedly against his face. “Hi! Hi!”

 

“Hi, Makino! How are ya?”

 

She thinks on the question with a very serious look on her face, before letting out a stream of very quick babbling. Wyvern nods along, equally serious.

 

“Oh, I see. You’ve been busy, huh?”

 

“Bababababa—gahba!”

 

And with that, she lets out a little sigh, lays her head on his shoulder, and proceeds to chew on his shirt. Wyvern laughs and lets her have at it.

 

Above them, there’s a flapping of wings and a distinctive caw of a seagull. A moment later, a News Coo lands primly on the porch rail, ruffling its feathers and looking meaningfully at them.

 

“Ah, the paper’s here,” Woop Slap says, heaving himself up from the bench with a grunt and going over to the seagull. He fishes out some coins and pays for a copy of the newspaper, and with another loud caw, the News Coo takes off again. Woop Slap adjusts his glasses with a sigh, straightening the papers in his hands and grumbling, “I swear they raise the price every time. See if I keep buying from them. If this keeps up, I’ll—oh!”

 

Wyvern looks up from watching Makino attempt to gnaw a hole through his shirt to see Woop Slap reading the news with both brows raised high.

 

“What’s going on?” he curiously asks.

 

Woop Slap thumps back down onto the bench, swinging them lightly back and forth. Laying out the newspaper across his lap for Wyvern to see, the mayor says, “Looks like your father’s up to his antics again. And they’ve given him another one of those ridiculous nicknames. Hrm, _Garp the Fist,_ indeed!”

 

Carefully holding Makino with both arms, Wyvern scoots over for a closer look. And quickly grins, because he spots a familiar name in the front page article.

 

_Chinjao the Drill._ Now doesn’t that bring up memories. His crew’s adventures in Dressrosa feel like an eternity ago, but seeing a much younger Chinjao’s wanted poster stirs up not a small amount of nostalgia for the once-Pirate King. He fondly thinks of Sai, of his other Grand Fleet commanders and their crews, and can only hope that they’re all doing well back in the time where he left them.

 

Here, though, Sai hasn’t even been _born_ yet. Most of Luffy’s commanders had always felt much older than him, not only in age but in experience, and yet now it’s _him_ with the head start. It’s yet another weird thing to get used to, here in his life as Monkey D. Wyvern.

 

As he reads about Garp’s confrontation with Chinjao, peering over Woop Slap’s arm and a baby Makino tucked against his front, Wyvern gets to the part of the article that describes how his father bent the pirate’s infamous drill with a single punch, rendering the leader of the Happo Navy unable to fight in both body and fighting spirit… and something like ominous realization comes over him.

 

Ah, right. Chinjao had wanted to kill him back when they first met, hadn’t he? All due to Luffy being Garp’s grandson. Back then, Chinjao had sworn revenge against Garp’s entire family, because of what he had done so many years ago.

 

Because of what Wyvern’s father had just done only yesterday, according to the newspaper.

 

… Well. That may be a problem, Wyvern considers. At the very least, he’s not setting out to the Grand Line or beyond anytime soon, and he doubts Chinjao would bother coming all the way to the East Blue if he finds out that Garp has two sons. Well, he _hopes_ so. Dragon will surely be covert when he sets sail eventually and is already a strong fighter to boot, so Wyvern isn’t that worried about his older brother encountering the revenge-driven pirate.

 

If it really comes down to it, Wyvern will gladly punch Chinjao’s drill back to rights himself. He may only be ten, but he thinks he could swing it. His haki reserves are much larger than they used to be and are only continuing to grow, with all the practice he’s been getting in for the past decade.

 

As it is, though, it’s a problem for another day. _Thanks, Dad._

 

And speaking of haki. Wyvern feels something like a twinge and glances down at Makino, who continues to use his shirt as a chew toy and is casually kicking him in the ribs with her little, sandal-clad foot.

 

“Woop Slap,” he pipes up. “Makino’s gonna need a new diaper in… um, five minutes.”

 

“Now _that’s_ a useful trick. You could make a killing on babysitting when you’re older, you know,” Woop Slap comments. He’s already quite familiar with the Monkey brothers and doesn’t seem at all fazed by the ten-year-old’s apparent future sight. He folds up the newspaper and looks at him, asking, “You know how to change a diaper?”

 

Wyvern shakes his head, bouncing Makino lightly. “No.”

 

Woop Slap stands up and gestures with the newspaper for Wyvern to follow him inside the house. He says, “Well, then, I may as well show you. We’ll make a responsible adult outta you yet, young man.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning for some minor Wano spoilers, particularly from around chapter 939 and on!*

 

It’s just an average day at the Dadan Family hideout. Patrols are walking their routes, weapons are being maintained, food and funds are being tallied… all very typical stuff.

 

It’s also very typical that this kind of peace never lasts long.

 

Dadan is casually sharpening her axe with several bandits milling about her, all of them minding their own business, when Dadan gets a sudden chill running down her spine. She perks up her head to turn toward the entranceway.

 

“Boss?” Dogra asks, noticing how she abruptly straightens from her seat on the floor.

 

“Shh,” she hushes, waving a hand at them all, and the whole room falls silent.

 

Outside, they all hear a distant, rhythmic thudding—the distinct sound of a large, heavy person’s feet pounding against the dirt path leading up to the hideout. And it’s growing quickly, increasingly louder.

 

Dadan doesn’t even have time to let out a startled curse before the front door is forcefully kicked open, and one Vice Admiral Garp barges in.

 

_“Dragon!”_ he barks before whirling around to lock eyes with Dadan. “Is Dragon here?”

 

“Uh, _no?”_ she responds very emphatically, staring at him with wide eyes. “What the hell?! You came all the way here to ask that?”

 

In her opinion, it’s a valid question. Of the two brothers, Dragon has always been the aloof one, preferring to keep his distance from the bandits. Though he still pops up in the forest from time to time to scare the living daylights out of her and her patrols, Dadan can count only a handful of times he’s physically been inside the hideout. It was most always because he was retrieving his brother. 

 

Now, _Wyvern,_ on the other hand… He visits them frequently, with absolutely no warning like the world’s cheeriest health inspector. And he does this very often nowadays, as he’s been growing older and apparently deemed responsible enough to be given more free reign. The kid is fourteen now, but after all the years they’ve known each other, Dadan really wishes Dragon would keep him on a tighter leash.

 

She’d get way less headaches that way. And trying to restock the hideout’s pantry after a visit from Wyvern is the absolute _worst._

 

Even as she tells Garp that Dragon definitely isn’t here, the Marine is scanning around the room and grumbling to himself, obviously agitated. With a furrow to his brow, he tells the group at large, “His boat’s gone, and no one’s at the house. The villagers haven’t seen him or Vernie for the past two weeks.”

 

Dadan blinks at the new information. “... Huh.”

 

Now that she thinks about it, Dadan hasn’t seen the brothers in a while, either. Going long stretches of time without seeing Dragon isn’t that unusual, but for Wyvern… For whatever reason, he’s long since deemed the bandits as his friends, and he never goes long without at least dropping by to say a quick hello. She’ll usually yell at him to get out, and he’ll just snicker before returning later with some freshly-caught game to share with them all.

 

Wyvern can be annoying, but he’s still a sweet kid. Dadan will deny to her dying breath that she’s a little worried. Just a little.

 

Meanwhile, Garp looks like he’s ruminating to himself, rubbing at his beard as he glances over the bandits like he’s expecting his sons to pop out among them at any minute. “.... He wouldn’t put him in danger like that,” he mutters under his breath, before shaking his head and turning back to Dadan. “Wherever Dragon went off to, I doubt he brought Vernie with him. But Vernie comes by here a lot, doesn’t he? Where is he?”

 

“The hell should I know?” she retorts, taking the moment to stand up from the floor. _Keep track of your own damn kids,_ she wants to say, but definitely doesn’t out of self-preservation. Waving her axe at Garp, she instead tells him, “That brat just comes and goes as he pleases. He doesn’t live here—who knows the next time he’ll be back?”

 

Just then, they hear a creak in the floorboards behind them. They all turn around to see the very teenager in question sticking his head through the doorway that leads to the pantry.

 

“Yo!” Wyvern— _the damn brat_ —greets with a piece of dried jerky hanging from his mouth.

 

Dadan and her bandits shriek, _“Since when did you get here?!”_

 

“Vernie! There you are!” Garp booms, immediately turning towards his son. Hands on his hips, he continues, “Where have you been?! And where’s your brother?”

 

Wyvern steps fully into the room, waving at the bandits before casually telling his father, “Dragon went on an adventure. And after he left, I went camping! And did some training on my own in the forest, before stopping by here. You know how it goes.”

 

Dadan looks on during this interaction and, in fact, does _not_ know how it goes. And if Garp does, he doesn’t show it. She can actually see a vein popping from his forehead.

 

“So. Dragon went on an _adventure,”_ he says in almost a growl, seemingly focusing on his eldest. “He didn’t say what he was planning on _doing_ during this adventure, did he?”

 

“Oh. He went to go start a revolution,” Wyvern replies, chewing on his jerky without a care even as everyone gapes at him.

 

In the dead silence that follows, the bandits’ eyes all swing nervously towards Garp. The man looks like he’s about to explode.

 

Visibly simmering, he asks, “And _when_ was this?”

 

Scratching his head, Wyvern responds, “Um… two weeks ago now?”

 

That seems to do it. “... Of all the hare-brained, _reckless_ things!” Red-faced and balling his hands into fists, Garp storms up to his younger son and angrily continues, “Apparently, Dragon used the last of his common sense to not bring you with him! What is he thinking?! A _revolution?_ Doing something like that, he’s just going to get himself killed!”

 

The bandits have since shrunk back against the walls at the Marine’s obvious anger, but Wyvern seems completely unaffected. He gazes up at his father, nonchalant, and even takes another bite of jerky.

 

“It’s his dream, you know. He was gonna regret it forever if he didn’t at least try,” Wyvern says matter-of-factly. And then he grins. “If anyone is gonna go up against the World Nobles, it’s gonna be Dragon! Just you wait and see!”

 

Dadan and her gang all go pale at that declaration—is _that_ what Dragon is doing?!—while Garp rears back as if he’s just been slapped.

 

“Oh, no. _No._ I don’t know what nonsense your brother’s filled your head with, but this is _not_ how things are done!” he asserts, towering over them all with a dark glower. “I’m not gonna let him do something so idiotic—even if I have to drag him back here myself! Why didn’t you call me before he left? Or even after, instead of going _missing for the last two weeks?!”_

 

“You’re gonna go after him, aren’t you?” the teen replies with a shrug. “I’m just giving him a head start.”

 

Garp just gapes at him for a long moment. He then lets out a loud, _“Augh!”_ of frustration before grabbing his son around the middle and hauling him under his arm like a kick ball, proceeding to stomp away through the hideout entrance. “We’re going home!” he barks. “And you’re gonna tell me where Dragon went off to, you understand?!”

 

Dangling at his father’s side, they can all hear Wyvern reply, “I can’t, ‘cause I don’t actually know! He probably knew you’d ask me first, so he didn’t tell me.”

 

Even though the pair have already made it outside, they hear another pissed-off, echoing _“Augh!”_ from Garp. A flock of birds takes off from the trees at the sound.

 

“... Well. That was… something,” Magra says in the silence that follows. The other bandits are murmuring to each other as he turns to Dadan and, like he’s not quite sure that he believes it, comments with slight hesitance, “So, looks like Dragon finally flew the nest. Guess the patrols don’t have to worry about him anymore, huh?”

 

“Hm. I suppose not. It’s about time, if you ask me,” she mutters, reseating herself back on the floor with her axe. “Now, if only he took the brat with him!”

 

Even as she says it, Dadan glances back to the entranceway, feeling somewhat uneasy. She doesn’t really know why. Dragon is a grown man, her own age in fact, who can take care of himself and is frankly way too powerful for their backwater East Blue island. It _is_ about time that he left, and she knows that he’ll be fine out there.

 

But, if what Wyvern said was true… taking on the Celestial Dragons? The World Government itself? That’s an entirely different league than meddling around the Goa Kingdom. Dragon is strong, stronger than most people, but it’ll take more than just his strength alone to pull off what she thinks he’s trying to do.

 

Even though he’s given her a lot of grief over the years… Dadan still can’t help but wish him a silent good luck.

 

“Uh… Boss?” Dogra interrupts her thoughts, peering through the doorway and visibly sweating. He swallows and says, “The pantry’s empty.”

 

Dadan stares at him for a long while. Then rethinks the past few minutes and instantly takes back her well-wishes—because Dragon’s black hole of a younger brother has cleaned them out of house and home yet again.

 

_“That little shit!”_ she yells.

 

Dadan takes it back, she takes _all_ of it back. She swears that this damn family is a plague on her life.

 

…

 

Wyvern is fourteen again, and like when he was Luffy, his older brother has just set sail.

 

There is something mournful in the fact that he can’t quite remember what Ace looked like back then, so young and aglow with excitement for the journey ahead. It’s been too many years since that day: he can still hear how the sail snapped open in the wind, how the waters off the coast of Mt. Colubo smelled of salt and seaweed that morning… and yet, the sight of Ace casting off and waving him farewell has faded over time. The grin Ace had on his face that day is just a blur in the sunlight, now.

 

It had been Ace’s seventeenth birthday, a bright and hopeful morning for them both. Wyvern wishes he could remember it better. Even though it’s been so long, a whole new lifetime altogether… sometimes, the old hurt of how much he misses him lances through his heart like he’s just woken up after Marineford all over again.

 

He doesn’t think he could go through that a second time. But once more, while seeing off Dragon in this life, he can only have faith in his older brother—that he’ll be able to face whatever life will throw at him and persevere and _live._

 

Dragon had left under the cover of night, from the tiny dock hidden by mangroves near their house. They’d been planning his departure for years, and Wyvern had been confident that they’d both be fine on their own. Even Dragon had finally determined that Wyvern could be left to his own devices.

 

And yet.

 

_You’ll be okay, won’t you?_ he’d thought, hugging Dragon one last time and squeezing him tight. Almost desperately, he could only think: _You’re my big brother. Promise me you won’t die._

 

With the memory of Ace lingering over him, Wyvern couldn’t bring himself to ask… and Dragon didn’t have much to say, either. He’d just hugged him back, pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and told him, _“Until we meet again.”_

 

Wyvern had smiled for him and responded, _“See you later!”_ and he’d watched Dragon’s boat sail into the horizon until he couldn’t see it anymore.

 

In their family, there are no goodbyes. _We’ll see each other again,_ the silent promise says. _Someday, let’s make sure of it._

 

If anything, Wyvern will ensure it himself. He won’t lose a brother again, and he’s only got one chance this time.

 

Deep in the forests of Mt. Colubo, Wyvern’s set up camp in a small clearing. He hadn’t been lying to his father at all, when Garp showed up to locate his wayward sons. Wyvern really has been training on his own since Dragon left, and _no,_ he doesn’t actually know where he went.

 

It’s been a month now, and Garp definitely hasn’t made good on his vow to return to Dawn Island with Dragon in tow. A satisfied Wyvern thinks it’s safe to say that his older brother has successfully made his great escape.

 

He’ll keep an eye out for any wanted posters, but he doubts he’ll see any anytime soon. Dragon has always been the more cautious of the two of them.

 

Wyvern pushes a fallen log upright on the forest floor, the great, heavy trunk settled vertically as if it were a towering tree again. He can feel several pairs of eyes on him, and after stretching a bit, he calls over his shoulder, “You guys should get out of here! I don’t want any of you to get hurt, okay?”

 

The group of forest animals he’s made friends with all scatter at his command, yowling and hooting as they disperse back into the forest. Leaves rustle with swinging monkeys, branches and twigs snap under the broad paws of bears and tigers, until the clearing is silent again.

 

Wyvern pulses out his observation haki—and, yes, they’re all gone and safely out of the way. Just for practice, he stretches his range out further. And further, and further, until he has the whole island and its surrounding waters in his senses. 

 

He picks out his friends in Foosha, feels the familiar presence of the bandits milling about their hideout, and scans over the citizens in Goa on the other side of the island. Every person and animal within his range feels like a tiny pinprick of light, all moving around and _alive_ as they go about their daily business.

 

It’s already something he could do before, back when he was the Pirate King. Being able to mentally catalogue the whereabouts of his crew and fleet and even those of their enemies at a moment’s notice was a very useful ability to have. If he concentrated on a certain person, he could get a sense of their emotions from afar, and even use his future-sight to see what they’d do next.

 

Without many opportunities for combat as Wyvern, though, he doesn’t have much use for those abilities right now. He’s had to settle for honing what he already has: fine-tuning his observation, stretching out its range, expanding his reserves, that sort of thing.

 

Taming animals aside, he hasn’t had much occasion to use conqueror’s haki at all, so he’ll just keep it in his back pocket until the time comes, whenever that may be. In the meantime, he can at least keep his observation and armament sharp.

 

He’s preparing for… something. Wyvern still isn’t sure what that is quite yet. But there’s a certain feeling inside him that’s insisting that it’s _important,_ so he needs to be ready.

 

Wyvern pulls his observation back in, until his scope of awareness returns to himself and the log before him in the forest clearing. He switches his focus to armament, then: coating his fist with haki, he reels back and sends a fist flying toward the standing log.

 

Pushing the flow of haki into the wood, he systematically destroys the log from the inside out. With a loud, sharp _crack,_ the log collapses into itself before shattering apart completely, without even falling over. A rain of wood chips comes falling down over his head as Wyvern draws his arm back, rolling his shoulder in circles to loosen up.

 

Dragon has taught him plenty of useful things over the years, but this is one thing that Wyvern’s taught him in exchange. He’s no Rayleigh or Old Man Hyogoro, but after showing Dragon what he was able to do, his brother was determined to learn this type of armament haki from him before leaving Dawn Island.

 

And so he did, despite them being in the far reaches of the East Blue, nowhere near the Grand Line where abilities like this are usually awakened. It’s very impressive, in his opinion. He’s always known it, but Dragon is extremely diligent in the things he sets out to do—and learning a very advanced form of armament haki had proven to be right up his alley.

 

Is it overkill? Yeah, maybe. Even so, it will help keep his brother alive when danger inevitably comes his way, and Wyvern thinks that Dragon will like this technique quite a lot. 

 

With what his brother will be up to... he’ll surely come across a lot of slave collars that need a good crushing.

 

Anyway, it’s only fair. Dragon’s taught him _way_ more stuff, especially things that will be useful just for living in Foosha on his own. Wyvern’s so-called “final exam” had featured cooking as its grand finale: spatula in hand, he’d nervously watched a very brave Dragon take a bite of the mushroom and vegetable omelet he’d made… and felt a surge of victory when he’d finally nodded in approval. He hadn’t even made a grossed-out face while eating it!

 

An entire lifetime, a Pirate King title under his belt, and fourteen additional years tacked onto that—and Wyvern is still learning new things. It’s not Sanji’s cooking and it never will be, but still. For him, it’s an accomplishment.

 

If only Sanji and the others could see him now. They’d be so proud.

 

Wyvern glances up, where the blue sky peeks out between the boughs of the trees. High up in the canopy, one of his monkey friends has returned to check on him, peering down curiously from its perch on a branch overhead. It makes a little crooning sound at him, swishing its tail through the leaves.

 

“It’s safe to come back now!” Wyvern calls up to it, cupping his hand against his mouth. “I’m gonna go for a swim, though! Tell the others I’ll see you all later, okay?”

 

The monkey hoots its agreement before jumping away through the trees. Nodding decidedly to himself, Wyvern starts his trek toward a seaside cliff he knows is nearby. He’s dived off this particular cliff plenty of times before, both with Dragon and without, and taking a lap or two around the island feels like just the thing.

 

Sometimes, he just has to go swimming for the fun of it. Not being a Devil Fruit user anymore does have its own perks. And he still remembers Rayleigh swimming his way from somewhere around Sabaody Archipelago all the way to Amazon Lily, as well as smugly swimming circles around a pouting, land-locked Luffy when they were still on Rusukaina together.

 

If he can’t have his Fruit, then Wyvern at least wants to be able to swim like _that._ It seems like good physical training in the meantime, anyway. Aside from Garp’s sporadic visits and with Dragon now gone, there aren’t exactly any Grand Line-level fighters around here to spar with.

 

It’s admittedly a bit lonely. There’s a reason why Wyvern hasn’t been back at the house all that much. It feels big and empty without his brother there.

 

He knows he’ll get used to it eventually. He’s done it all before. But… for now, he’ll just distract himself with other things.

 

Like swimming. As he makes his way through the forest, Wyvern hums to himself, glancing again at the sky through the treetops.

 

It’s warm out, and the sun is bright. Maybe he’ll go out a little farther than usual today.

 

… 

 

There’s currently a fisherman off the coast of Dawn Island. Well, his boat is floating, anchored, closer to the nearest neighboring island than to Dawn, but he’s heard that the fishing is good in this area and has sailed from the nearby western islands to try his luck here.

 

Unfortunately, he hasn’t heard about a certain creature that calls this region of sea its territory.

 

The fisherman is humming to himself, pole between his hands and buoy bobbing peacefully along in the water. He’s far enough out to not see land in any direction. The waves push past his boat at a gentle roll, the sky is clear, and as far as he can tell—all is well.

 

This all changes in an instant when some meters from his boat, the waves break as an enormous, hulking mass rises from the water. The shocked fisherman drops his pole and is thrown onto the deck when his anchored boat is violently rocked by the force. 

 

“W-what the hell is that thing?!” he cries out, scrambling back.

 

Grabbing onto whatever he can to keep himself from being flung from the boat, the man can only watch as the towering figure of a serpentine Sea King looms far above him. Jaw dropped and helpless, his heart abruptly sinks in his chest when he sees the creature’s massive head turn towards him, yellow eyes gleaming and its mouth slowly parting to reveal an intimidating row of long, pointed, fang-like teeth.

 

There’s nowhere to run. He’s out here alone, his boat is moored, and there’s no time to pull the anchor back up before the beast strikes.

 

He’s done for. He takes out a dagger for gutting fish, grasping the handle with hopeless desperation as he shakily takes in the creature that will be his doom. 

 

It was a mistake to ever come here. Why, _why_ did he ever think this was a good idea?!

 

The Sea King rears back its head, and the fisherman raises his knife with both trembling hands. Just then, he hears a splashing sound off to his right; fearing it may be another one of these creatures, he whips around to defend himself.

 

There’s a young man—more of a boy, really—treading water beside his boat. He’s tanned and dark-haired, with a crescent-shaped mark beneath his left eye. 

 

“Hi!” the boy greets amicably, strangely calm for the situation at hand. “Need help, mister?”

 

“Where on earth did you come from?!” the fisherman gasps, but—there’s no time. Quickly shaking his head, he gestures at the Sea King looming over them and asserts, “You’ve gotta get out of here, kid! However you got here, you’ve gotta go back _now!”_

 

Instead of heeding his warning, the boy only just glances at the creature, who glares back with a low, warning rumble.

 

Turning in the water, all the boy says is, “Hey, you. _Leave him alone.”_

 

The fisherman doesn’t quite know what happens next, but what he feels is this: a sudden drop in temperature, and a huge shockwave of what he can only describe as _power_ blasts through the air and water, sending waves crashing and the fisherman toppling back onto the deck. His knife is sent flying from his hands, and he distantly hears it clatter somewhere nearby when he lifts his head again.

 

The Sea King is frozen in place, staring down at them with large eyes. It almost looks… afraid?

 

“You heard what I said,” he hears the boy repeat. “Go away.”

 

And, somehow… the creature actually _obeys._ It turns tail and dives back into the water, and it doesn’t resurface again. In seemingly an instant, everything is calm once more.

 

The boy’s voice calls out, “Hey, old guy! Are you okay?”

 

The fisherman scrambles back to his feet, slack-jawed at what has just occurred. He hurries over to the side of his boat to see his young savior still treading water nearby, looking entirely unfazed and smiling at him.

 

“W-what? What was that?” the fisherman asks, floundering. “How did you—?!”

 

“You’re not from around here, are ya? That was the Lord of the Coast. At least, that’s what people call him,” the boy explains, as casual as anything. “Don’t mind him, he won’t bother you anymore. We’ve got an understanding.”

 

The fisherman gapes at him. “Lord of the Coast? An _understanding?_ I don’t—”

 

“Hm, I should probably head back.” Completely disregarding his many questions, the boy glances around them, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. “Oh. Can’t even see Dawn from here. Didn’t realize I swam out so far…”

 

“You… you _swam_ out here from _Dawn Island?!”_ the fisherman exclaims, still entirely flabbergasted. He turns his head all around, trying to see if he’d missed a nearby boat of some kind, but he sees none at all. The only boat here is his own. He turns back to the boy in the water and, wide-eyed, offers, “I-I could give you a ride back? If you want?”

 

The kid just waves him off. “No need, I came out here for the exercise, so I’ll just swim back. I’m not tired yet, anyway. Thanks, though!”

 

“... Ah. Okay.” Staring for a moment, the fisherman comes back to his senses and says, “Look, I don’t know what you did just now, but… you saved me, didn’t you? So… Thank you.”

 

The boy grins at him, bright and genuine. “No problem! See ya, mister!”

 

He then turns around in the water and does, in fact, swim away. The fisherman watches on as he gets further and further, occasionally coming up for air… until he’s just a speck on the horizon. 

 

The fisherman plops down to the deck. He feels absolutely winded, his life in mortal peril in one moment to being completely fine the next. And the one who saved him, with whatever means, is gone just as quickly as he came, with no real explanation or reason whatsoever.

 

Who the hell was that boy? Or, maybe more accurately… _what_ was he?

 

… 

 

A seven-year-old Makino hurries down to the docks, her backpack bouncing along with each step. She waves to the villagers who greet her as she passes, smiling knowingly to herself and scampering away before anyone can ask her what she’s up to.

 

It’s adventure day! Well, it’s a day where she’s secured Monkey D. Wyvern as her babysitter—it’s basically the same thing. She’s got her bag packed with snacks and various odds and ends for whatever excursion they’re going to go on today.

 

The last time Wyvern babysat her, he’d borrowed a boat from one of the villagers and took her sailing around Dawn Island. The time before, they’d made a day trip over to Goa, Wyvern showing her some hidden places and shortcuts around the city as they went along. And the times before that all followed the same vein: Wyvern is the kind of guy who always seems to be on the move, and days with him are always exciting for an adventurous little girl who usually stays close to home.

 

Makino isn’t sure if the adults in her life quite approve of her older friend. Woop Slap in particular likes to refer to him as _a teenage delinquent,_ running around and stirring up trouble wherever he goes. Even so, Wyvern is always kind and has never failed to return Makino without a scratch, so no one has actually said anything against him as her occasional babysitter.

 

Meanwhile, in Makino’s eyes… For her, Wyvern’s been there for as long as she can remember. He’s always happy to give her a smile and whisk her away on some new exploit if she only asks. He’s her friend, and has always been something like a fun, older brother.

 

One thing’s for sure. Things would be so _boring_ without him.

 

Makino makes it down to the marina without incident, and she soon spots Wyvern helping out one of the local merchants with unloading the cargo from her ship. He picks up odd jobs from time to time, and this one has him carrying stacks and stacks of heavy-looking crates without breaking a sweat. Two grown, adult workers, slowly inching by while straining to carry just one crate together, are staring at him with wide eyes and open mouths.

 

And they’re not the only ones. A group of villagers has gathered by the docks, just watching Wyvern go back and forth between the ship and the steadily increasing pile of crates loaded onto multiple carts.

 

As Makino approaches, weaving her way around people’s legs, she can hear the merchant comment, “My, Wyvern! You’ve gotten quite strong since the last time I saw you, huh? How old are you now?”

 

“Sixteen!” Wyvern replies as he sets another stack of crates down and begins loading up a cart.

 

“Ah.” The merchant seems surprised by this, but she shakes it off quickly. “Well, I suppose you’ve always been strong for your age. The next time a shipment arrives, I know just who to call on!”

 

“Hey, Wyvern!” a girl around Wyvern’s age calls out to him while her friends all giggle. “Think you could carry one of those if all of us were sitting on it?”

 

He blinks at them, and then at the crate in his hands. “Uh, yeah? Why?”

 

The girl doesn’t get to respond, because by then, Makino’s shouldered her way to the front of the crowd and is scampering over to her friend. Sighting her, Wyvern’s face is soon sporting a grin.

 

“Makino!”

 

“I’m here!” she announces as she skids to a stop next to him. Almost bouncing in place, she asks, “Are you gonna be done soon, ‘cause I’m ready to go!”

 

They both look over to the merchant, who chuckles at their combined puppy-eyes and says, “Well, with Wyvern’s help, we’ll be done in a fraction of the time it normally takes us to unload. We can take it from here—go on, you kids.”

 

“Cool! See ya, then!” Wyvern exclaims, saluting her with one hand and taking Makino’s outstretched hand with the other.

 

As they leave the marina area, walking past the crowd of villagers who are dispersing now that the spectacle is over, Makino tugs on the strap of her backpack and tells her friend excitedly, “I brought my adventure bag!”

 

“Oh, good! You should always be prepared when you go on adventures,” he responds, nodding in approval. “What’ve you got in there?”

 

“Um.” Skipping along beside him, she thinks and replies, “Got some food. A water canister. Some matches, in case we need to make a fire. A map of the island, and a compass, in case we get lost!”

 

Wyvern nods again, making a thoughtful hum. He then looks down at her and asks, “So, we’re gonna need all that, huh? Where do you wanna explore this time?”

 

She’s feeling particularly brave this morning, so Makino blurts out, “Can we go up the mountain?”

 

For the children of Foosha Village, Mt. Colubo is the end-all, be-all of challenges. The forest is the place kids dare each other to go into, where their parents constantly warn them off of, and for good reason: everyone knows that dangerous animals live there, and criminals and thugs lurk beyond the trees, just waiting for their next victim to pass by.

 

Everyone also knows that Wyvern goes up the mountain all the time, and always comes back unscathed. He’s been doing it since he was a little kid himself… and, well, maybe it’s no wonder that the mayor calls him a delinquent, after all.

 

Wyvern is super strong, though! Makino’s gone with him before (secretly, because she’s never told any of the adults so, and Wyvern apparently hasn’t ever mentioned it, either), and none of the animals or bad guys ever mess with him! He even has a group of bandit friends who live in the forest—who are kinda scary to little Makino, but Wyvern says they’re okay and despite being criminals, they’ve never actually tried to hurt her, so… she thinks it’s fine!

 

“Interesting choice,” Wyvern muses, rubbing at his chin. He glances at her knowingly. “You scared?”

 

“No!” Makino denies, pouting. “I’m not! Nothing happened last time, and this time’ll be fine too, ‘cause you’re gonna be there!”

 

He just grins and pats her on the head. “Of course! I’ll protect you, Makino—promise.”

 

“Good!” She squeezes his hand and looks up at him defiantly. “Or I’ll tell everyone that you’re a bad babysitter.”

 

“Okay, okay. I surrender!” he replies, his grin growing wider. “Don’t want that now, do we?”

 

They pass through town, and they soon make it to the path that leads up the mountain and through the forest. The trees are packed in denser and grow taller the further one goes, and Makino suddenly feels very small standing at the foot of the mountain. She shuffles in place, clinging to Wyvern’s hand as she looks out to the horizon, where the mountaintop looms in the distance.

 

“Hm. It’s kinda a long way. I just carried you last time, but maybe…” Wyvern says, thinking aloud. He then looks at Makino and asks, “Wanna see something cool? It might be a little scary at first, but trust me on this, okay?”

 

Makino looks back at him, not knowing what he means but nodding nonetheless. “Sure.”

 

Wyvern faces the forest again and lets out a long whistle that seems to reverberate throughout the mountainside. Afterwards, it’s quiet for a few moments, but a flock of birds soon take off from the nearby treetops. Then, a dark, hulking figure soon appears between the trees before them.

 

“Wyvern,” a wide-eyed Makino whispers, hiding herself behind his legs. She feels his hand resting atop her head, and she looks up to see him smiling at her.

 

“It’s okay,” he reassures her. “I’ve got you.”

 

Slowly, Makino nods back, and she returns her attention to the figure in the trees. The form gets bigger and bigger as it approaches, plants crunching and branches snapping underfoot, and the silhouette gradually becomes more distinct until it eventually breaches the tree line and steps out into the sun.

 

It’s a tiger—a large one, too. Makino tenses as it approaches… but instead of leaping to attack with its pointed teeth and sharp claws, the tiger just comes to a stop before them, lazily blinking its dark eyes at Wyvern.

 

“Hey, there!” he greets it with a smile. Makino feels his hand at her shoulder as he continues, “This is Makino. We’re going up the mountain, but it’s a bit of a hard hike for a kid. Mind giving her a ride?”

 

Makino looks on with big eyes as the tiger lets out a rumble from its throat and crouches down—and then looks at her, like it’s waiting for her to get on.

 

“Go on, he won’t hurt you,” Wyvern encourages, nudging her forward. “Here, I’ll help you up.”

 

When they get near enough to the tiger, with Makino marveling at just how _huge_ the animal is up close, Wyvern scoops her up in one motion and neatly deposits her on the tiger’s back. Its fur is soft beneath her palms and between her fingers, and she hesitantly pets the back of its neck where she can reach.

 

“Um. Good kitty?” she tells it, and this time she can feel the tiger rumbling beneath her. Oh, it’s purring!

 

Wyvern scratches beneath its chin and says, “Yeah, good kitty! Now, be really careful, okay? I’m trusting you to look after her for now!”

 

The tiger licks his face, sending his hair awry, and Makino giggles. Of course it’s his friend! She’s never even heard of any of the Mt. Colubo animals ever giving Wyvern trouble.

 

It’s super cool, being able to ride a wild tiger up the mountain. The other kids in town would be so jealous of her right now.

 

As they start up the mountain path, the tiger lumbering along with her on its back and Wyvern walking beside them, Makino asks, “Hey, do you have a superpower that makes animals your friends? Not _all_ the animals on Mt. Colubo listen to you, do they?”

 

“I can make ‘em. But there’s a trick to it,” he admits with a shrug. “I wouldn’t call it a superpower, though. And besides, there’s already a Devil Fruit that can make animals your friends.”

 

Makino blinks at him. “But… aren’t Devil Fruits only a myth?”

 

He grins and responds with a certain twinkle in his eye, “I _know_ they’re not.”

 

“So they _are_ real!” she gasps, leaning forward with interest. All the adults say that Devil Fruits don’t really exist, but she has no reason to doubt Wyvern’s word. He’s the one who usually tells her all the _interesting_ stuff, about things that go on beyond the shores of their little village. “So do they really give you real-life superpowers?!”

 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Wyvern confirms. Makino leans in even more, waiting for him to elaborate, and he acquiesces, “Though, it’s permanent if you eat one, and it’s the only one you can ever have. Plus, you can never swim again.”

 

“What, really?”

 

He nods solemnly. “Really. Superpowers or swimming, that’s your choice.”

 

Makino thinks about it and then sighs. She supposes that it wouldn’t be so bad if the person eating the Fruit spent their whole life on land, but considering how the ocean is just so big and how Foosha is a seaside town… 

 

Well. Maybe it’d depend on what the superpower is, whether she would decide to ever eat one or not.

 

“Would you ever eat one?” she asks curiously.

 

Wyvern looks up to the sky, and she can see him still smiling as he responds, “Oh, yeah! I would. But only a specific one.”

 

“Oh! Tell me, tell me!”

 

“The Gum-Gum Fruit. It’d turn me into rubber! I’d be a rubber man!”

 

“What?” She makes an unimpressed face at him, plopping her front fully onto the tiger and now more laying on it than sitting. “That doesn’t sound fun. What would you do with _that?”_

 

“Hey, don’t knock it! I can think of plenty of cool ways to use a Fruit like that! Like, for example—”

 

As they continue their hike up the mountain, Makino clings to her tiger steed as Wyvern explains to her all the creative and wacky ways he’d utilize his hypothetical rubber powers. She doesn’t really understand what’s so special about turning into _rubber_ of all things, or why Wyvern would ever need to do something like blow himself into a big balloon… but her friend seems very enthusiastic about the idea, so she just lets him have at it.

 

If anything, it seems like he’s thought about it a whole lot.

 

As they get higher up and the path grows steeper and narrower, Wyvern begins leading the way with the tiger following dutifully after him. Makino breaks into her backpack and doles out snacks; she instructs Wyvern to give one of her packed sandwiches to the tiger, who takes it delicately from his hand with surprising gentleness and then swallows it in a single gulp.

 

The party of three eventually make it to a more level area: there’s a parting of trees along the path, and a wood building built into the mountainside is visible in the clearing. Makino remembers this place as the house of Wyvern’s bandit friends, but after peering around, she doesn’t see anyone outside now.

 

“I’ll take it from here, tiger! Thanks for your help!” Wyvern says as he lifts Makino from her fuzzy perch and sets her back on the ground. The tiger rumbles again before turning away and lumbering back into the trees.

 

“Bye! Thanks for carrying me!” Makino calls after it, a little forlorn. She was kinda hoping it would be with them the whole day.

 

Wyvern walks over to the doors of the building, and Makino hurries after him. When she looks up at his face, he’s making an odd expression.

 

“Something’s happened,” he states without much affect.

 

Makino doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. Her friend sometimes does a thing where he knows something before it’s actually happened, or predict what she or someone else is about to do, or even how they’re feeling. She wonders if that’s what’s happening now.

 

Wyvern may not consider it a superpower, but Makino sure will.

 

They share a glance between them before Wyvern, not bothering to knock, just opens the front door and steps inside. Makino follows close behind, and they’re both treated to the sight of multiple bandits loudly exclaiming to each other over… what looks like newspapers all scattered around the room.

 

“Hey, all!” Wyvern announces as he crosses the threshold, Makino all the while clinging to his hand and staying close. She knows they’re his friends, but she can’t help but be a little nervous.

 

“You again,” a lady with curly orange hair grunts from her seat close to a fire pit. She has a newspaper folded out in her lap, but she closes it as her eyes land on Makino. “I see you brought the kid again, too.”

 

“Yup!” Wyvern replies cheerily. “In case you forgot, this is Makino. And Makino, this is Dadan!”

 

Makino remembers—she’s the leader of this bandit gang, and she thinks that she may have actually seen a wanted poster of her in town somewhere. Dadan is kinda scary, with her persistent scowl and heavy-looking axe leaning nearby, but Wyvern always insists that she’s got a soft spot. Deep, _deep_ down.

 

Still, Makino feels very small as Dadan leans forward, giving her an odd look and asking, “You’re not another Monkey D. now, are you?”

 

“Um, no? I’m not,” she replies with some confusion, and she’s startled when Dadan lets out a deep sigh of relief.

 

“Oh. Well, that’s alright, then.”

 

Makino doesn’t have much time to contemplate that response, because Wyvern then jumps in to ask, “Dadan, what’s going on? What’s everyone so worked up about?”

 

“You haven’t heard?” the bandit replies as she hands off the paper to him. “Guess you didn’t get to see the newspaper before coming up here. Dunno what the hell’s going on in the Grand Line now, but it’s _big.”_

 

Intrigued, Wyvern sits down with her and looks at the front page story, and Makino scrambles over to take a look herself. There’s a couple of words in the article that she doesn’t know, and as she tries to work them out, she doesn’t notice Wyvern go still beside her.

 

There’s a large picture of a man on the front page. He’s tall and dark-haired, with a long coat and a captain’s hat. He’s also sporting a big, curved mustache. And a toothy grin.

 

_“Gold Roger,”_ the title says in bolded letters. _“The King of the Pirates.”_

 

“They say he and his crew explored the entire Grand Line,” Dadan supplies, nodding at Makino’s confused look. “You’ve heard of them, haven’t you, kid? The Roger Pirates have been in the news a lot lately.”

 

Makino nods slowly. The name sounds familiar; maybe she’s overheard adults talking about it? Still, she looks at the picture and article again and doesn’t quite understand. She looks up at Wyvern and says, “I didn’t know pirates had a king?”

 

The expression on his face is one she’s never seen before. She won’t know it now, but there’s something like joy, sadness, and nostalgic wistfulness in his features as he smooths out the paper with one hand.

 

“They didn’t,” he tells her, a smile peeking at the corners of his mouth. There's a mischievous gleam to his eyes when he adds, “But whether people like it or not, they’ve got one, now. Gol D. Roger—the Pirate King.”

 

He says the words slowly, like he’s savoring them. Makino tilts her head questioningly at him.

 

“But wouldn’t that a bad thing?”

 

Wyvern just shrugs, still smiling. “Good or bad… I think that’s something you should decide for yourself, isn’t it?”


	4. Chapter 4

_"Oh, so you’re coming? Sure you don’t want me to pick you up? It’s going to get crowded in the next few days… Well, in that case, meet me at the Marine base when you arrive. It’s been a busy year, and I haven’t seen you in ages! You hear me, Vernie?! I’ll know if you don’t at least stop by!”_

 

That’s what his father told him, just yesterday when Wyvern spoke to him via transponder snail. Garp hasn’t returned to Foosha in a long while, and his extended absence has a very good reason this time.

 

Gol D. Roger is in custody. The Marines are now mobilizing for his execution in Loguetown.

 

It’s strange. In an abstract way, the whole time he’s been growing up in this new life, Wyvern has always been aware that Roger is out there somewhere. It only makes sense; Roger is Garp’s contemporary, an old enemy his father has griped about over the years, a big name that’s shown up in the papers with increasing frequency and importance… And yet, it’s so odd to fathom that exact thing: that in this moment of time, Roger is so very real, breathing, and _alive._

 

All this, right now. Somewhere across the sea, the first Pirate King is existing in the same era as the second.

 

No one but Wyvern knows it, of course. But Roger has always just seemed so unreachable, so larger than life. It’s strange, humbling, _exhilarating—_ to know that the man who started it all is alive at this very moment.

 

However, he can still recall what Rayleigh told him and his crew all those years ago, back when they were still budding rookies just arriving on Sabaody. Even if Roger lives for now, he is already dying. By ultimately submitting himself to the Marines, he’s taken his fate into his own hands, now.

 

Wyvern understands that. He knows what it means to be in the final days of one’s life, after all. He remembers, and he understands all too well.

 

It only feels right, to go and see Roger with his own eyes. Wyvern knows the stories and has heard the legends, both in this life and especially the last, but to be in the presence of the original Pirate King and discover for himself what kind of man he is… 

 

He’ll never get another chance, and so he’ll go.

 

In a small sailboat, borrowed from one of his neighbors, Wyvern is finishing up preparing some supplies for the short voyage across the East Blue. He’s dug up one of his brother’s maps and found himself a compass. The storage space on the boat is stocked up with food, the boat itself has already been checked over for sea-readiness, and he’s packed a bag with extra food and changes of clothes.

 

He’s seventeen years old and about to set sail from Foosha Village. He’s not going very far, and he won’t be gone for very long. Still, it feels symbolic in a way, as he hops down from the dock and into the boat, which sways a little under his feet. Wyvern looks across the blue sea and breathes in the familiar, salty breeze.

 

He stands alone in his boat, young and casting off once more.

 

But the feeling is different. The first time he did this, he’d had a dream too big to hold alone, and a crew had been only a vague idea in Luffy’s mind. It was all a distant mirage he could make reality if he only just reached out and grabbed it. 

 

But now? The dream is fulfilled, over and done, and he can only hold the memories in his cupped hands, to keep them close and never forget. This time, he already knows what it’s like to build and keep a crew—to live with them, fight alongside them, and love them to the end of his days.

 

If he closes his eyes, it’s almost like they’re all here with him. He can imagine the sound of Franky raising the anchor, the image of Jinbe’s experienced hands reaching over to help him with the ropes and sails. He can feel the reassuring presence of Nami at his side to guide their way, hear the lively chatter and familiar footsteps of his other crewmates readying the Sunny to set sail… 

 

He opens his eyes again. It’s just him, a borrowed boat, gathering clouds above and rolling waves below. Wyvern looks across the horizon with a map in his pocket and a compass pressed to his heart.

 

He pulls the sail open, and it quickly catches and pulls taut.

 

“Here I go!” Tightening his grip and guiding the boat out to open waters, he calls into the ocean winds, “Watch over me, guys!”

 

… 

 

“Admiral Sengoku, sir. Report for you from Impel Down, as well as a message from Fleet Admiral Kong.”

 

“Hm. Let’s have it, then.”

 

The Marine hands over the papers and, after Sengoku’s nod of dismissal, exits the room again. As the Admiral reads over them, he can hear Garp crunching away through his bag of rice crackers over on the couch nearby, as well as the porcelain clinking of Rosinante fiddling with the tea set.

 

“More tea, sir?” the young recruit politely asks.

 

“Yeah, sure. Thanks, kid,” Garp responds, and there’s the sound of liquid being poured. Through his munching, Sengoku hears him ask, “So, Sengoku, what’ve we got? Anything new?”

 

“The repairs on Marineford seem to be going smoothly, from what Kong says here,” the Admiral answers in a neutral tone, his eyes roaming over the text. “No thanks to you, with what you pulled last week.”

 

“Hey! I wasn’t the only one who was fighting Shiki, remember?” Garp protests. At the corner of Sengoku’s eye, he can see him waving a cracker at him before eating it. Slightly muffled, he says, “You must’ve done just as much damage as I did!”

 

“Hardly,” Sengoku sighs. “Honestly, Garp. At least _try_ to contain your destruction of property next time. Especially at headquarters.”

 

“I didn’t see _Shiki_ trying to avoid property damage, when he was busy cutting down our soldiers,” Garp mutters as he takes a sip of tea. “Good thing your boy here was out on assignment that day, or he would’ve been at Marineford, too.”

 

He gestures with his chin toward Rosinante, who looks between them with big eyes. Sengoku sighs again, this time wearily conceding.

 

He’s thought of it himself more than once. If Rosinante had been stationed at Marineford a week ago… he could have easily become one of the casualties that had been so rapidly climbing in numbers before Sengoku and Garp arrived on the scene. Rosinante is only a boy, just in the starting stages of his Marine training, and the Gold Lion is not the type of man to take any prisoners.

 

He shudders to think on it, what could’ve happened to his adopted son if the circumstances were just slightly different. However, in his position, he can’t afford to dwell on what-ifs.

 

“... Yes, I see your point. At the very least, Shiki will not be a problem from here on out,” Sengoku says, adjusting his glasses and setting the papers down on the desk. “The Warden has him locked up tight in Impel Down. We shouldn’t be hearing from the Gold Lion for a long, long time.”

 

“Good.” Garp nods decidedly. “Can’t have a pirate like that finding his way here to the East Blue, especially now.”

 

Today is the day of Gold Roger’s execution. After all of Shiki’s braying about how he’ll be the one to kill Roger, they cannot afford to take any risks with an event like this. Beating down a pirate with such a reputation as Shiki’s was entirely necessary—both to protect the Marine headquarters, and to protect the sanctity of the East Blue.

 

Garp once called this Blue a symbol of peace, and Sengoku is inclined to agree with him. There is poetic justice in executing the Pirate King here, in his own humble hometown. It will surely send a message to the entire world: one that declares that criminals will be hunted down and stamped out, and the Marines will be the ones to deliver that justice. 

 

It will be the beginning and the end, for both Gold Roger and the tumultuous era that he heralded. It’s a promise of peace that has been a long time coming.

 

Sengoku opens his mouth to inform Garp of some other news the Fleet Admiral has sent, but he’s interrupted by a sudden, frantic knocking on the door. Before he can even say _come in,_ the door is cracked open by a rather distressed-looking officer.

 

“I’m so sorry for the interruption, Admiral Sengoku, sir!” he blurts out, eyes wide and seemingly out of breath. “Is Vice Admiral Garp in here?”

 

“I am,” Garp states, setting down his teacup. Rising from the couch, he asks with a raised brow, “What do you need me for?”

 

“Well, it’s, ah. Someone’s here to see you, sir.”

 

Sengoku furrows his brow when they all can hear raised voices from the hallway outside, as well as the hurried, scuffled thumps of many people running around. He briefly meets eyes with a similarly puzzled Rosinante, who comes to stand next to his desk.

 

Garp prompts, “Well, out with it, then. Who is it?”

 

“It’s—”

 

Just behind the man, they hear many approaching footsteps and several Marines shouting, _“Wait!” “You’re not allowed to—” “One of the Admirals is here, you can’t just—!”_ before the officer at the door is shoved aside with a startled yelp, and the door is fully thrown open.

 

A young man in a cheerful floral print shirt stands there, a number of bedraggled Marines helplessly too late to stop him now all crowded in the hallway behind him. His eyes quickly land on Garp, and his face breaks into a wide smile.

 

“Dad!” he exclaims—and although Sengoku has never seen this young man in person before, he knows _immediately_ who he must be. “I’m here like you asked! These guys wouldn’t let me through, though, so I just found you myself.”

 

_“Vernie!_ So you came after all!” Garp booms his greeting with a laugh, striding forward to grasp the youth’s shoulders with both hands. “You just charged your way through, huh? Hah, of course you did!”

 

The harried officers standing behind who can only be _Monkey D. Wyvern_ are all staring at the pair with bewildered expressions. Garp simply waves them off.

 

“Go back to your duties, you lot, it’s fine. My boy’s just come for a visit while I’m here in the East Blue.” He gets a foreboding glint in his eyes as he adds, “Though, what can be said about a kid getting past so many Marines and making it all the way here without any of you stopping him? My Vernie is no ordinary kid, of course, but still! Maybe some more _training_ is in order!”

And at those words, the group quickly scatters back to their stations without looking back. Garp laughs again, and Sengoku sighs, “Terrorizing our subordinates has become something of a pastime for you, hasn’t it?”

 

“They can be so _stuffy,_ I gotta make my own fun sometimes. But anyway, that’s enough about that,” he replies flippantly, before returning his attention to his son. He nudges him forward and introduces with evident pride, “This is my son, Vernie!”

 

“Wyvern,” the young man clarifies, smiling at Sengoku and Rosinante in a carefree, brazenly unapologetic way that is very reminiscent of his father. “Hi!”

 

Examining him, Sengoku can see it. Though Wyvern is currently quite small and skinny compared to his father, Sengoku has known Garp for many years; thinking back to their trainee days, it’s easy to pick out the physical similarities between a young Garp and this boy. Dark, tousled hair and dark eyes, a familiar facial structure complete with an impish smile. It’s uncanny, really—he even has a mark near his left eye, though Sengoku knows from what Garp’s told him that it’s merely a birthmark and not a scar. The boy even seems to have a preference for clothes in tropical flower print, as Garp likes to sport whenever he’s not in uniform.

 

And from the apparent altercation between Wyvern and the staff of the Loguetown Marine base… Sengoku can see that Garp’s unabashed, irreverent nature has rubbed off on his son as well. Garp is always bemoaning the fact that his son is unwilling to join the Marines, but perhaps it’s for the best. One Monkey D. in their organization is already enough of a handful, nevermind _two._

 

Nevertheless. It’s about time he’s met his friend’s child in person.

 

“A pleasure, Wyvern. I am Admiral Sengoku. I’ve known your father since we were both Marine recruits, many years ago,” he introduces himself. “After all the stories Garp’s shared with me, it’s nice to finally have a face to the name. How old are you now?”

 

Hands in the pockets of his shorts, Wyvern responds, “Seventeen.”

 

Sengoku nods, even though he’s inwardly reeling. Has it really been so long since Garp kicked down his office door, hollering joyously about the birth of his second son? The years have really just flown by. 

 

“Ah. You’re just a year older than Rosinante, here. He’s one of our new recruits.” He gestures with his chin towards the young Marine in question, who immediately straightens at the sound of his name. 

 

Rosinante hesitates for a split second before shyly greeting, “Hello.” 

 

Wyvern gives him a big grin, a bit startling with how bright it is, and Rosinante ducks from the attention from behind his bangs. Sengoku looks at the boys, noting the stark contrasts between them and belatedly thinking about just how odd it is to see both his son and Garp’s in the same place, at the same time.

 

Though… that brings to mind a rather relevant question.

 

Turning his attention back to Wyvern, Sengoku mentions to him, “... I do wonder. Have you heard from your brother recently?”

 

Garp shoots him a pinched look that asks, _“Really?”_ and Sengoku shoots back a sharp expression that dares him to protest.

 

There have been… whispers, of a man called Dragon who has been steadily gathering forces for some unnamed purpose. As an Admiral, one of the more prominent faces of the World Government, Sengoku does not like the implications of this one bit. The situation is not exactly dire, and while no side is in the position to make any moves just yet, he has an inkling that there is more behind this person’s actions than anyone can currently see.

 

He’s also known Garp long enough to know the name of the man’s first child, a son he had a falling out with some years ago and doesn’t speak much of anymore. With that history in mind, it's easy to put two and two together; _Dragon_ isn’t exactly an inconspicuous name. As such, Sengoku is well aware that Garp’s Dragon and the mysterious ringleader Dragon are one and the same. 

 

Garp may be uncomfortable now, but his eldest son may very well put him in a precarious situation one day. It would be best to nip this in the bud as soon as possible, and if the younger son can give them any clues, then all the better.

 

However, Wyvern just looks at Sengoku with a slight tilt of the head. Not even a flinch passes across his face as the boy responds, “No. Haven’t seen him since he left home. Why?”

 

Sengoku’s face is placid even as he carefully scrutinizes him. Measuring, he says, “Hm. Just call me curious. From what your father’s told me, the two of you were close.”

 

“Yeah, well, he raised me, ‘course we’re close,” Wyvern replies with an easy nod. “But he’s out doing his own thing now, and I’m doing mine.”

 

“... I see.”

 

Either the boy is telling the truth, or he has a very good poker face. Garp has always been a terrible liar, but Sengoku does not know his son well enough to determine if Wyvern shares this quality. Still, this is a civilian boy facing down an Admiral while looking entirely unbothered. There are plenty of hardened criminals that have shown at least a _hint_ more nervousness than him.

 

“Well. If you’re staying for the execution, please be careful. The town square and the connecting streets will be very crowded indeed,” Sengoku advises. He then glances at Rosinante and suggests, “Rosinante, why don’t you show Wyvern here around the base? It wouldn’t do for him to get lost, now.”

 

His son snaps to attention. “Oh, yeah, okay. I mean—yes, sir!”

 

It’s a clear dismissal. Rosinante moves to the door, while Wyvern shoots a “See ya, Dad, Mister Sengoku!” over his shoulder as he follows him out. Garp makes a move to accompany them, but Sengoku thwaps his papers on his desk with definitive authority.

 

“Not you, Garp. We’re not done here. There’s still the rest of the preparations to get through.”

 

Visibly put-out, Garp complains, “I haven’t seen my boy in almost a year! _I_ wanted to be the one to show him around, maybe show him off a little to my platoon!”

 

“Then do it _after_ this execution is over and done with.” Sengoku glances at the clock mounted on the wall and tsks to himself. “There’s not much time left before it begins.”

 

… 

 

As they meander through the Marine base, Wyvern glances at the teen who’s been assigned to play tour guide for him.

 

Rosinante is blond-haired and tall, taller than Wyvern despite being a year younger, long-limbed and gangly in the way of not having grown into himself yet. The name _Rosinante_ doesn’t ring any bells, so Wyvern figures that they’ve never met before in either of his lives. And yet… there’s something weird about him that he can’t quite place.

 

Not really putting much thought into it, Wyvern directly asks, “Hey, have you got family out in the Grand Line or something? You look kinda familiar.”

 

Rosinante stumbles a little as he walks, but he seems to regain his footing quickly. With a shaky laugh, he responds, “Er, no. I’ve only got Admiral Sengoku looking after me—I owe him a lot.”

 

“Oh. Never mind, then.”

 

He can't recall ever seeing a blond Marine who looks like Rosinante ever accompanying Sengoku, but he can’t claim to know Sengoku all that well, either. Wyvern fought plenty of Marines during his run as Straw Hat Luffy, so maybe he and Rosinante crossed paths before and he just doesn’t remember? He supposes it’s not out of the realm of possibility.

 

Maybe Law would’ve known. He thinks Law and Sengoku had been friends, in the end—Law visited the retired Fleet Admiral from time to time, though he never really spoke of it to Luffy. Wyvern wishes he could ask him about it now.

 

Well. Either way… Wyvern has to shake off Rosinante quick, or he won’t be able to accomplish what he came to Loguetown for in the first place.

 

“So, um, you’re Vice Admiral Garp’s son, huh?” Rosinante says as they descend some stairs to the ground floor. “Are you planning on joining the Marines someday?”

 

“Nah,” Wyvern responds, stretching his arms over his head. “Not really my thing. I’d sooner become a pirate, myself.”

 

Rosinante gives him an incredulous look, which he just shrugs at.

 

“I don’t like rules.”

 

Rosinante doesn’t seem to know how to reply to that. When they exit the stairwell into the public areas of the building, he eventually says, “... Right. I guess I can see that. How did you get past all those officers, anyway?”

 

“For the most part, I walked.” Despite Rosinante’s evident disbelief, Wyvern doesn’t bother explaining more. Instead, he ploughs ahead: “But speaking of pirates—the Pirate King is on the island right now, isn’t he? You know where they’re keeping him?”

 

“In the holding cells, I’d imagine. But trainees aren’t permitted in that area, so I haven’t seen him myself,” Rosinante admits. He takes a moment to process Wyvern’s expectant look, only then to balk and backpedal, “W-we can’t go down there, of course! Gold Roger is a dangerous man! Only the higher-ups with proper clearance are allowed to enter the cell blocks right now!”

 

Wyvern, meanwhile, extends his observation haki and can already feel a powerful presence hidden somewhere beneath their feet. He locks onto it and thinks: _Bingo._

 

Out loud, he says, “Right, right. Guess you can’t show me down there, then. Bummer.”

 

“Yes, I can’t. Sorry,” Rosinante sighs. He seems to think for a moment and then brightens, adding, “Oh, that’s right, you’ve had a long journey, haven’t you? You must be hungry. I’d be happy to show you to the mess hall, if you’d like.”

 

Now _that_ is an offer that is incredibly tempting. 

 

“Yeah, let’s go!” he easily agrees, and Rosinante perks up at his enthusiasm.

 

“Right! Um, this way, please!”

 

Wyvern follows him through the halls, which get increasingly more crowded with Marines and reporters and many others who are all here for the execution. “Oh, stay close!” Rosinante says over his shoulder… before somehow tripping head-over-feet on the perfectly flat flooring.

 

Wyvern knows an opening when he sees one. As multiple concerned people stop to help the young Marine up, Wyvern pivots on his heel and slips away into the flow of the passing crowd. 

 

He does feel a bit bad for just ditching Rosinante, as the guy was earnestly nice and just trying to be helpful. But Wyvern’s on a mission of his own, and he doesn’t need a Marine of any sort tailing after him while he does it.

 

Infiltrating a Marine base on his own, he does feel a bit like a ninja—or a secret agent.

 

_“Act like you belong there,_ ” Dragon once advised him. _“If you must operate out in the open, the right demeanor will encourage people to believe that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”_

 

Of all his brother’s stealth lessons, this one is the easiest for him; some mental fortitude and an easygoing mien are things he doesn’t need to reach far for. Away from the upper floors of Marines who have already seen him, Wyvern strides through the public halls like he’s done it a hundred times before, getting barely a passing glance before people put him out of mind and simply return to whatever they were doing.

 

However, the hard part is still to come. Trickling out his haki, Wyvern begins tagging the locations of all the soldiers patrolling the floors below—mentally mapping out the route he needs to take to bring him to that single, golden presence glowing steadfast in the dark.

 

He’s got a Pirate King to meet.

 

… 

 

Roger has to hand it to the Marines: they sure know how to make a guy feel welcome.

 

The manacles around his wrists feel like they’re chafing his skin, which is annoying. He may just ask the next officer he sees whether they can take them off for a bit. Of course, he highly doubts that they’d ever agree to that, but as he sits alone in the pitch black of his holding cell, about to die within the day...

 

Well. At this point, all Roger can do is keep himself entertained with idle daydreams. Time is ticking away, and he can’t help but think it’s a shame that he can’t at least spend these final hours with the warmth of the sun on his face.

 

He supposes everything has a price. For the life he lived, full of adventure and boundless freedom and the people he loves, a death like this one is a trade he wouldn’t hesitate to make again if he could.

 

And so, Roger waits for the end. It can’t be long now; he thinks it’s only been a few hours since Garp visited him, and no one else has come down to the cell blocks since. He probably won’t be seeing anyone until they come to take him away for good.

 

However, just as he thinks this, Roger senses something. A little spark, like a candle being lit in the distance of his periphery… 

 

Somewhere in the base above, someone is coming towards him.

 

Oh, but who could it be? Roger has never felt this presence before, and he’s sure he would have remembered it if he had. It’s small, like it’s being carefully contained to be smaller than it should be, and yet it burns with remarkable intensity. Roger has traveled the world and met many, many people, but it must be a very unique sort of person to have grown a presence like this one.

 

How interesting! Maybe he has just enough luck left to squeeze out one last unforgettable encounter—be it friend or foe.

 

Sitting in the dark as he stretches out his observation haki to the floors above him, Roger finds himself quickly entertained. He silently tracks the unknown person as they steadily descend from floor to floor down to the cells. They dodge past a multitude of guards, lie in wait in corners and then dash off again, even duck around a number of surveillance snails along the way. Roger can’t help but chuckle. Whoever it is, they’re doing their utmost to not be caught; that haki aura is being pulled in so tightly, he doubts that even Garp and Admiral Sengoku on the upper floors can even feel it. 

 

It’s like watching a little firefly flitting about in the night. Roger even loses the presence once or twice, but he manages to grasp that light again as it eventually comes to a stop at the door to his cell block, where Roger alone is imprisoned.

 

What will happen now? He gets a little thrill when he realizes that he has no idea.

 

Fortunately, he’s not kept in suspense for very long. Roger hears the mechanisms of the door lock turning, followed by the metallic creaking of hinges moving in place. He can see the faint orange glow of a lantern creeping closer, along with footsteps that are lighter than any of the Marines he knows.

 

A person comes to a stop in front of Roger’s cell, and lit in the glow of the flame is a face he’s never seen before. Roger already wasn’t expecting anyone he’s ever met, and yet this is something else entirely.

 

It’s a boy, maybe around Shanks and Buggy’s age. He’s just a skinny thing with a mop of black hair and a mischievous look in his eyes. And, oh, Roger likes that look—he’s always had a great fondness for troublemakers.

 

“Well, then.” Roger grins at him. “Come to gawk at the Pirate King, have you, boy? Am I what you expected?”

 

The kid looks at him for a long moment—and what a picture Roger must make in his dingy cell, disheveled clothes and unkempt mustache and all. He’s certainly made a better showing of first impressions in the past, but considering the circumstances, his current state can’t really be helped.

 

However, the boy doesn’t point out any of these things. What he says instead is a slightly petulant, “I guess. I just wish I could’ve met you outside,” which makes Roger burst out into laughter.

 

“You’re a strange one!” he exclaims. “What difference does it make?”

 

The boy looks down at the lantern he holds aloft in his hand, which he then sets down on the stone floor. He sits himself down next to it, cross-legged before the bars of the cell, and replies, “A lantern like this isn’t the same as being under the sun, is it?”

 

Roger blinks at him before slowly replying, “...Ah. No, you’re exactly right. It isn’t.”

 

The boy nods knowingly, strangely empathetic in a way Roger wasn’t expecting. “It’s very dark down here. I guess they did that on purpose, though. Sorry I couldn’t bring anything brighter; this thing is the best I could find.” He nudges the lantern with his foot.

 

Roger can feel his grin turning into something more genuine. This kid… somehow, in a roundabout way, he understands the sort of freedom Roger himself has always cherished.

 

“Nowadays, any light is light enough. Thanks for bringing me some, kid,” Roger says, nodding back. He then leans forward, chains rattling at his sides, to examine the boy more closely. “You know… you’ve got one powerful spirit. I felt you coming before you arrived. Do you always hide it like you’re doing now?”

 

The boy shrugs one shoulder, unperturbed by Roger’s observations, replying, “Most of the time, I guess? I don’t wanna scare people if they’re haki sensitive. And right now my dad is upstairs, and he would _definitely_ notice me here if I didn’t hide it.”

 

That tidbit of information narrows the boy’s possible relations to either Garp or Sengoku, of the people in the building strong enough to notice minute changes in haki presence. Knowing what Roger does about either of them… he thinks he can wager a guess about who this kid may be.

 

A little hellion with a talent for haki and a longtime fondness for pirates, despite his father’s every attempt to sway him otherwise. Yes, that narrows it down quite a bit.

 

Roger’s grin widens. He takes the gamble and asks, “By any chance, are you Garp’s son? The infamous _Vernie_?”

 

“... Huh. Dad even told _you?_ I knew you guys knew each other, but…” To Roger’s amusement, the boy actually looks a little embarrassed, scratching the back of his head. Nevertheless, he collects himself and continues, “Ah, well. That’s kinda cool, though. The Pirate King knows who I am! Even if it’s by the nickname my dad calls me.”

 

“Oh? So, what’s your name, then?”

 

“I'm Monkey D. Wyvern.”

 

“... Wyvern,” Roger repeats. What an intimidating name for such an amiable kid. Though, knowing Garp, that may be the exact reason he named his child that to begin with.

 

Another D, too. How very curious.

 

Shifting into a more comfortable position on the floor, Roger leans back against the wall and finally says, “Well, then, Monkey D. Wyvern. You went through quite a lot of trouble to get down here. Is there something you wanted from me?”

 

Wyvern raises a hand and puts up his first two fingers, responding, “Two things, actually. I came here to tell you something, and to ask you something.”

 

What does he have to lose? Brows raised, Roger says, “Alright. I can’t guarantee you anything, but let’s hear it.”

 

“Cool. Guess I’ll just start with what I wanted to say, if I ever got to meet you this time around.” Wyvern pauses for a moment to think, but before Roger can puzzle out what he means by _this time around,_ the boy states, as if it doesn’t make Roger’s heart stop in his chest: “Ace will live. I promise.”

 

The rest of the cell block is completely silent, and yet the words ring in Roger’s ears.

 

Fingers tightly grasped against flat stone, he starts, “Did Garp tell you—”

 

“Dad didn’t tell me anything,” Wyvern denies, shaking his head. “I already knew about Ace.”

 

“How…”

 

Roger has gone completely still. It’s not often he gets taken so entirely off-guard like this. Usually _he’s_ the one springing surprises on people, and he’s not sure how to feel about finally being on the other end. He almost feels like laughing.

 

This boy… he shouldn’t know that name. The possible names for his and Rouge’s child were from a private conversation between the two of them, weeks ago, unwritten on any paper and entirely unspoken to anyone else. It’s not like Rouge would ever tell anyone, and Roger hadn’t told Garp, either. Unless there had somehow been a Wyvern-sized fly on the wall in Rouge’s house on Baterilla, all the way in the South Blue, on a certain day and at a very specific time… No. There’s absolutely no _way_ this kid should know.

 

And yet, somehow, he does.

 

The world is a big place, full of things that seem impossible until one sees it with their own eyes. Roger knows that better than anyone. As such, there’s only one possibility he can think of that makes sense, so he postulates, “Perhaps… you’re a seer of some kind? You _really_ shouldn’t know that, kid.”

 

And from Wyvern’s words and the unyielding resolution of his expression, the boy seems so sure that the child will be _Ace_ instead of _Ann_. Who else could be so unflinchingly certain, if not someone who’s already seen the future?

 

Despite Roger’s reasoning, Wyvern simply replies, “No, I just know some stuff. It’s not really important how.” 

 

One may argue that _yes, it really is important._ However, in the face of his impending end… Roger supposes that it may not actually be.

 

What he soon finds _is_ important is this. From where he sits on the other side of the bars, Wyvern squares his shoulders with a determined look and speaks again. 

 

“I know Dad already promised to look after Ace, but I wanted to make that promise, too. I don’t know if I’ll be able to meet Ace’s mom, but I was able to meet you, so you at least should hear it.” Hands on his knees and his head bowed to the floor, Wyvern vows, “I promise you that I’ll protect Ace, with my life if I’ve got to. I’ll look after him the best I can.”

 

“... You’d go so far for someone you don’t even know?” Roger asks quietly, his gaze fixed on the young man before him. “Why? Do you expect some kind of reward? Or is preserving the Pirate King’s legacy so important to you?”

 

Wyvern looks up from the floor, and Roger is struck by the fire in his eyes.

 

“No, I don't care about any of that stuff!” he responds, conviction lining the frown of his mouth and the shape of his words. “I’ll make that promise because Ace will be a part of my family! And I take care of my family, with everything I have. I won’t let anything happen to him. I swear it!”

 

His voice rings down the row of empty cells, until the only sound is their breathing. The following silence stretches between them, hanging heavy in the air. Eventually, though… Roger’s shoulders can’t help but sag with relief.

 

There are no lies in Wyvern’s voice, only clear and resounding truth—only a fierce, determined love with enough power to cleave the heavens in two and shake the world in its name. Despite their short acquaintance, it's so achingly familiar. He has the kind of look that keenly reminds Roger of those he himself loves—like Rayleigh’s steadfast devotion, Shanks’ overflowing potential, Rouge’s unbending willpower that could twist fate itself.

 

In a way, he reminds Roger a bit of himself, too. How he'll fight tooth and nail for the people he considers family, be willing to die for them when he is called to.

 

A kindred spirit, this one, a boy with old eyes and evidently more secrets than Roger will ever know the answers to. Even so, he wishes he could have met this young man sooner, that they might’ve had more than just this once to sit and talk. 

 

He thinks they could have been good friends.

 

“I acknowledge your promise. For my child’s sake, thank you,” Roger finally says, smiling softly. After a beat, his smile takes a joking quirk when he tacks on, “Are you really so sure they’ll be _Ace_ , though? They haven’t even been born yet.”

 

Wyvern tilts his head in thought, considering it. Eventually, he shrugs once more and admits, “I guess anything could happen, really. But I’m pretty sure he’ll be Ace. And even if he isn’t, my promise still stands.”

 

“... That is good to hear,” Roger sighs.

 

He leans back and lets the knowledge wash over him. He doesn’t know how Wyvern came upon such a prediction, or why he cares so much; he supposes that at this point it doesn’t really matter. But what remains is that Roger will have a son of his own, and that son has yet another protector to rely on.

 

A son. He and Rouge will have a son. 

 

_Ace_. 

 

Just having confirmation of his child’s name makes it all the more real. Even if Roger will never get to meet him, the knowledge instills him with a comforting peace.

 

_Ace… I wonder, what will you look like? Where will your life take you? What kind of person will you grow up to be?_

 

“We don’t have a lot of time. They’re almost here already,” Wyvern informs him, his eyes glancing over to the door. “I still have that other thing I wanted to ask you.”

 

Even so young, Wyvern has proven to be a powerful haki user, indeed. Roger too can sense the battalion of Marines heading their way. He picks out Sengoku and Garp leading them, the latter of whom quickly speeds up his pace. He's likely sensed the familiar but _very_ unexpected presence of his son right next to Roger’s.

 

So, his time is almost up. Roger prompts, “Quickly, then. What is it?”

 

Wyvern wastes no time in asking, “If you could tell Ace one thing, what would you say?”

 

He could’ve asked the Pirate King just about anything, be it the secrets of the world he’s uncovered or the location of the treasures he’s hidden away, and Roger probably would’ve humored him. And yet, like the promise he’s taken upon himself, Wyvern only asks something for the benefit of Roger’s child.

 

What a strange, endearing boy.

 

Still. Such a weighty question...  and yet, it’s the easiest to answer. There are so many things Roger wants so desperately to tell his child, his little boy who has not yet even entered this world… but he imagines that he’d want to say what any parent would say to their child, if it were the last words they’d ever get to tell them.

 

“... One day, will you tell Ace,” he says with a wide smile, “that I love him very much?”

 

Wyvern grins back. Just as they begin to hear the muffled footfalls of incoming Marines through the walls, he replies, “Consider it done!”

 

The door to the cell block promptly bursts open, and Garp is the first one through. He furiously marches in and, upon seeing the two of them, just gapes at the sight of pirate and teenager casually sitting cross-legged across from each other as if the cell bars weren’t even there.

 

“Hey, Dad!” Wyvern greets, waving one hand at him.

 

Garp sputters for a moment before demanding, “Vernie, what the _hell_ are you doing here?! This is a restricted area, how did you even get in?!”

 

“Now, there's nothing to be worried about,” Roger interjects, grinning at the wide-eyed officers and a stern-faced Sengoku. He nods to Garp and says, “Your son was kind enough to keep a condemned man company in his final moments, is all.”

 

“That’s _all?”_ Sengoku questions with raised brows, obviously disbelieving.

 

Roger lifts the chains still binding him down in his cell and responds, “It’s not like I’ll be able to break out of this place, even with the kid’s help. No offense, Wyvern.”

 

“None taken!”

 

Sengoku then eyes the boy and asks, “Wasn’t Rosinante supposed to be with you?”

 

Shameless, Wyvern just replies, “I think he got lost.”

 

Sengoku is most definitely frowning at that response. Meanwhile, Garp pinches the bridge of his nose with a grunt of exasperation. He pulls Wyvern up by the collar and then pushes him towards the door, ordering, “ _Out_ . I’ll find you after. We’re _going_ to talk about this, you brat.”

 

Wyvern carelessly stretches his arms over his head and replies, “Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” 

 

But before he turns away completely, Wyvern looks at Roger one last time and smiles kindly at him. His expression is understanding in a way beyond his years. 

 

“Bye, Roger.”

 

Even with knowing him for all of a few minutes, Roger knows this boy is not one to say goodbyes lightly. It’s because he’s exactly the same way himself.

 

“Goodbye, Monkey D. Wyvern,” he responds, returning that warm smile with the warmth of his own. “You’ll be one to watch in the future, that’s for certain. Thank you for visiting me.”

 

Wyvern grins and waves, before casually walking past Garp, Admiral Sengoku, and the several other Marines lined up along the rows of cells. All eyes are on him until he disappears through the doorway, and one of the officers shuts the door behind him with a loud, metallic _clang._

 

The attention then returns to Roger, and the mood quickly sombers into grim finality.

 

As the soldiers move to his cell to ready the Pirate King’s transfer, Garp seems very much pissed off that his kid was talking to a notorious criminal—the Pirate King himself, no less. He looks like he sorely wants to say something. However, Roger beats him to the punch.

 

He chuckles and tells him with undisguised sincerity, “I hope you won’t go too hard on him for this. You have a good kid, Garp.”

 

His old adversary looks a bit taken off-guard by the comment. But even as Garp schools his expression back into professional stoicism, there’s a certain glint in his eyes that belies his true feelings. 

 

Gruffly, he replies, “He's a pain in the ass sometimes, but yeah. My Vernie’s a good one.”

 

His expression and words are a mix of frustration, pride, and unrelenting love for his son, and it makes Roger think— _ah, so that’s what being a parent is like._

 

He won’t get to experience it for himself, and as he’s swiftly locked into another set of handcuffs, he mourns that fact. But there’s a promise and a message riding on the shoulders of a kind young man, final words that will one day reach his child when Roger will no longer be here to speak them himself… and despite his impending end, he has a feeling that things will be okay. 

 

After all, when one story ends, another begins.

 

He thinks of his allies, his crew, his dear friends. He thinks of Rouge. He thinks of their child. Of Ace.

 

Flanked by Marines and with the world unforgivingly bearing down on them all, Roger takes his first step out of the prison cell like he steps onto a battlefield, in the way he's done so many times before:

 

With his loved ones behind him, and himself as their shield.

 

He smiles and thinks: 

 

_To a new beginning._

 

… 

 

The sky has grown heavy with gray clouds.

 

Wyvern finds a hidden alcove on the roof of a building facing the town square, where he has a clear view of the execution platform and the growing crowd of people gathering around it. It’s a good spot to sit and think while he waits for things to get underway, but he keeps getting distracted.

 

There are many people down in the square, with many others still arriving. Among them are a surprising number of people Wyvern knows—or, people he _used_ to know—their familiar auras sparking in the corners of his awareness and drawing his eyes to try and spot them among the crowd below.

 

He reigns in the urge, though. What would he even to say to any of them right now, anyway? Shanks, Buggy, Mihawk; Crocodile and even old Mingo… How strange, to feel them all gathered here in one place, younger and not as strong as he remembers them, and to not actually have even the slightest connection to any of them at all. They’re all strangers, and yet not. 

 

This second life of his is so weird.

 

However, a sudden gust of wind blows over the rooftops of Loguetown, and Wyvern abruptly senses something much more familiar approaching him with rapid speed. A delighted grin spreads across his face as he jumps to his feet and whirls around.

 

A hooded figure drops out of the sky from seemingly nowhere, landing neatly on Wyvern’s rooftop without a sound. Meanwhile, Wyvern lets out a loud _whoop_ and immediately charges at him in a running tackle.

 

“Wy— _oof.”_

 

_“Dragon!_ I didn’t know you’d be here!” Wyvern yells as he very nearly bowls his older brother over with his enthusiasm. “Was that a Devil Fruit power just now?! That’s so _cool!”_

 

“Hello to you, too.” Dragon hugs him in return, and he even sounds a bit amused. “It’s been a while, Wyvern. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

 

“Still alive and kicking, see?” he says, leaning back to look his brother in the face. Smug, he adds, “Told you I’d be fine!”

 

“Yes,” Dragon sighs. “You did tell me. I now see the error of my ways.”

 

Looking at him now, Dragon is the closest he’s ever seen him to the man he knew as Dragon the Revolutionary. His clothes are dark, and his hooded cloak is a deep, woodsy green. In the time they’ve been apart, his face has grown older, too—and it seems that all he needs to complete the transformation is that signature red tattoo.

 

It’s strange. He’s getting so close to becoming Luffy’s father and the leader of the Revolutionary Army, to becoming the most wanted man in the world... But even with this knowledge, all Wyvern can see anymore is his big brother.

 

Meanwhile, Dragon is examining him in return, and his eyes narrow. 

 

Reaching out to lay a hand on top of Wyvern’s head, he stares and says, “Since when did you get this tall? You’ve sprouted up like a weed.”

 

Wyvern rolls his eyes. “Dragon, I was fourteen when you last saw me, _‘course_ I got taller!”

 

“... Yes, of course.” He blinks at him, looking a little lost in thought. “Hm. Has it really been so long already?”

 

“Guess time flies by when you’re plotting to overthrow the World Nobles?”

 

“I suppose it does. Though, on that note, I have something to ask you, Wyvern.” He pauses for a moment while Wyvern looks at him questioningly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I came because I have a feeling that the world is about to change... but I’m glad we’ve had this opportunity to see each other again before it does.” 

 

Dragon glances around at the empty rooftop around them, ever vigilant, before fixing Wyvern with a long, measuring look.

 

He says, “I’ll just tell you directly, then. I’m currently in the process of creating an army, one that will someday have enough power and influence to challenge the World Government itself. Will you join me? Your strength would be invaluable to the cause.”

 

Wyvern can’t help but stare at him. The offer is startling, but maybe he should’ve expected it. He’s never bothered hiding his abilities around Dragon, and with his brother surely weighing his familial concern against his confidence in Wyvern’s fighting skills, it makes sense that Dragon would try to recruit him eventually.

 

Still. Him, a Revolutionary? As much as he loves Dragon, and as much as he misses the Sabo of his past, Wyvern can’t really imagine it. He’ll always be a pirate at heart. 

 

And, now, Wyvern has an important promise to keep. One that takes priority over all others.

 

He ultimately tells Dragon, “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to say no this time. I’m sure your army will do just fine without me.” Cheekily, he then tacks on, “But as my big brother, _maybe_ I’ll let you have first dibs on my allegiances, whenever I might set sail myself!”

 

Dragon lets out an audible breath before nodding his acceptance. “I figured I should at least ask, but I suppose that’s the best I’ll get for now. I’ll hold you to that, Wyvern.”

 

He reminds him, “I said _maybe!”_

 

“Yes, yes. I hear you.”

 

“And don’t think I didn’t notice you dodge the question about your Devil Fruit! What is it, when did you get it, _how_ did you get it, how does it work—”

 

Dragon raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Yes, alright. One question at a time.”

 

An excited Wyvern opens his mouth to first ask the name of the Fruit, but he’s interrupted when there’s an audible commotion down in the square. He and Dragon share a glance before quickly hiding themselves in the shadows of the alcove and peering over the roof ledge.

 

On the far side of the town square, the masses of people have parted for a procession of Marines. Garp and Sengoku aren’t marching along with them, but Wyvern can sense them still on the island. Surely enough, though, near the head of the procession is Roger—being led by a chain from his manacles, a smile already visible on his face even from so high up.

 

It’s starting.

 

“So, that’s him,” Dragon murmurs. “The Pirate King, Gol D. Roger. The man who shaped an era.”

 

Wyvern doesn’t reply, only nodding silently. He can already feel goosebumps running up his arms as the clouds churn overhead, threatening to send rain pouring down on them all at any minute. It’s like the sky itself knows that things are changing, too. 

 

Wyvern only wishes that it was clear out today, so that Roger could feel the sun one last time.

 

Everyone watches as the Pirate King ascends the steps of the tall, wooden platform, meeting the two executioners at the top and kneeling in place. He looks out over them all with his ever-present smile. The world is looking back.

 

Over the chatting and murmuring of the spectators, one voice suddenly rings out.

 

_“Pirate King! What did you do with your treasure? It’s on the Grand Line, isn’t it?! The greatest treasure in the world!”_

 

The crowd stirs at those words, like a fire has been lit beneath them, lit within them. The Marines yell for silence, but it’s already too late. Ears are straining for Roger’s answer, and the fire is about to be stoked.

 

The boom of Roger’s voice feels like it echoes through the entire square, through the town and down its streets, carried on the wind to the seas beyond.

 

_“You want my treasure? You can have it.”_

 

Wyvern’s breath catches in his throat as the entire world seems to zero in on this one man atop the execution platform.

 

He feels his heart pounding in his chest, electricity running down his spine and his hair standing on end. These are the words he’s always kept with him from the very start, from when he was very small and his name was still Luffy. Of course he knows what’s about to happen, but he’s never dreamed of hearing those words in the haunting, immortal voice of the original Pirate King himself. It was always a story one heard from another, a tale that spread across the seas into legend itself.

 

Until today. Until right now.

 

History is about to be written. The era is shifting before their very eyes; the tides are turning out on the sea. The winds of change surround them all in this exact moment.

 

Wyvern watches raptly, and he doesn’t dare to blink as he sees Roger’s grinning mouth open to speak his final, earth-shattering words:

 

_“I left everything the world has to offer in one place! Now, all you have to do is find it!”_

 

The crowd roars as the executioners’ blades raise over Roger’s head. Like a storm-driven sea, they rush against the base of the platform, crying out demands of what his treasure really is, where that treasure may be.

 

Roger doesn’t reply. The Pirate King is still smiling as the blades come down again.

 

Up on the rooftop beside his brother, Wyvern watches in silence, and he doesn’t look away. He both sees and feels the exact moment Gol D. Roger dies—a single, burning star suddenly swallowed into darkness. Over the roaring and rioting of the crowd down in the square, the clouds hanging heavy overhead as the rain falls at last, Wyvern finally releases the breath lodged in his throat.

 

Slowly, shakily, he takes his first breath of the era where he found his last beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of kings, and an important promise! :')
> 
> We're almost there, you guys!!!


	5. Chapter 5

The sky has opened up, and a deluge is coming down over Loguetown. Falling rain drums hard against Shanks’s hat, the brim curving beneath its weight. The sound of droplets hitting straw is a loud, uneven staccato in his ears. 

 

For all the time he’s worn it, the hat has never felt so heavy.

 

Wandering away from the town square, Shanks finds himself lingering around the marina, listless, just staring out past the many ships moored there. People pass by in droves; he barely notices them at all. His clothes are completely soaked through, and the warmth in his skin has been sapped away by the rain. And yet, all he can register in the moment is this: the sky and sea are both an unforgiving, steely gray… and his captain is dead.

 

Roger is gone. Shanks saw it with his own eyes, so even in his grief he would remember it and _know._  

 

He’s… he’s really gone.

 

For a man of miracles, who pulled off the impossible time and time again… there aren’t any miracles left to bring him back this time. There’s no coming back after this.

 

Leaning against the wet brick of a nearby building, Shanks feels a wry, pained smile forming on his lips as he looks over the restless waters rocking the boats back and forth, like toys being strung along on the waves. This is just the way of the world, isn’t it? When things are good, some part of him wishes it could last forever—that it really _will,_ if he just believed it hard enough. There’s always another horizon, some new adventure across the sea, more time to spend with the people he loves… Until there isn’t.

 

His captain is dead. The remaining Roger Pirates are scattered to the far corners of the world. And as for Shanks?

 

Right now, the rain is cold, and he’s standing in the street alone, unfocused and beginning to shiver. Roger isn’t coming back, and neither will his crew. The crowds of people who came for the execution are slowly dispersing, to surely return to their lives away from all this. But Shanks has nothing to return to.

 

Where does he even go from here? Hard brick digs into his back, and the growing weight of the hat on his head roots him in place. Paralyzed, with the ice of rain seeping into his flesh, he finds himself fixed to this very spot, unable to take a step in any direction.

 

_“Endings always come,”_ Roger once told him, in a breath of a moment that feels so far away now. With a bark of laughter, he’d put the straw hat on Shanks’s head and said with his knowing grin, _“But what will come after is the real mystery. What new beginnings will be born, hm? Will you be the one to show me, Shanks?”_

 

He doesn’t know. He wasn’t able to show Roger all that much, in the end. And he doesn’t see a way to show him anything now. The world feels like it’s come to a standstill, passerby all an unrecognizable blur against a backdrop of gray, like the rain will forever fall on straw and skin and stone. 

 

And yet, unheeding of loss and grief… time marches ever on.

 

In the distance, a bright peal of laughter rings down the streets. It’s a playful and joyous sound, something more suited to a carnival than an execution, and it sends a turbulent pang of bitter longing through him. Maybe it’s because the loss is so recent, but it sounds like the way his captain used to laugh—and who else but Roger could muster the carefree, simple joy to laugh like _that,_ on a day like this. 

 

He knows that it can’t be Roger, the voice is too young and his captain is _gone,_ and yet… 

 

Shanks can barely find the strength to lift his head, but just the barest cinder of hope compels him to turn and glance around the corner.

 

What he sees is this: a laughing teenager around his own age shouldering his way through the throngs of people in the street, completely ignoring yells and protests with a brilliant grin on his face. Dodging expertly through the crowd, he seems to pay no notice to the rain that pelts against his skin and soaks through his clothes. 

 

The guy is making a beeline towards the marina, and for some inexplicable reason, he looks like he’s having the time of his life while he does it.

 

A whistle of wind carries his laugh down the street, where Shanks stands near the water, suddenly transfixed by something he can’t explain. There’s something so easygoing, so uncomplicated about the sight, the sound. With the crashing of waves so near… if he were to close his eyes, it would almost be like he’s on the Oro Jackson again—his captain and crew by his side.

 

But his eyes are open. With the splashing of puddles underfoot, the guy sprints past Shanks in a blur of black and red… and Shanks only gets a brief glimpse of a toothy grin, before he’s relegated to just watching the guy’s back as he runs for the line of boats moored in the water.

 

Shanks stands a little straighter, pushing off from the wall he’s been leaning against. He silently looks on as the stranger jumps into a little sailboat, hidden haphazardly between the larger ships along the dock, and hurriedly goes through the motions of preparing to cast off. The rain is still coming down hard, and the wind seems to be picking up, but he nevertheless seems determined to set sail anyway.

 

Shanks watches all this from under the dripping brim of his hat. As he takes a step forward, he can’t help but think to himself: _What the hell am I doing?_

 

The closest thing he had to a plan for when all this was over was to find the nearest bar and drown himself in alcohol until he felt nothing at all. The idea is still appealing, and he doesn’t have any other plans besides that. His crew is disbanded, leaving an unmoored Shanks by himself for the first time in years; and so like a ship floating aimlessly in uncharted waters, whether he means to or not, he’s peering desperately through the fog for a glimpse of the nearest lighthouse.

 

And maybe it’s that spark of familiarity in a complete stranger—that signal beam of a laugh cutting through the pouring rain—that makes him call out, “Hey, you!”

 

The other teen immediately pauses his actions and swivels his head to look at him, his eyes wide like a startled deer. Shanks walks over to the edge of the dock as the guy points to himself, asking, “You’re talking to me?”

 

“Yeah,” he replies, before nodding at the sailboat. “You got room for one more in there?”

 

If the guy is shocked by Shanks’s sudden request, he doesn’t show it. Like he expected this all along, he only grins and says, “Sure! But we’ve gotta go now. And I mean, right _now.”_

 

Shanks doesn’t bother asking why. He only nods, and in a practiced motion, he hops down from the dock and into the boat beside his new companion—who looks at him like his unplanned presence is instead the most delightful of surprises. Shanks sits down on one of the benches and doesn’t think much of it.

 

“Okay, off we go!” he tells Shanks, untethering the boat from the dock and guiding it past the other ships, out into the mouth of the marina. Before they get too far, though, he seemingly remembers something as he exclaims, “Oh, right!” He then turns to face the docks again, and cupping a hand to his mouth, he hollers, _“Have a safe trip wherever you’re going! See you again soon!”_

 

Shanks blinks up at him—he’s pretty sure the other teen was alone when he approached him. He glances back at the docks, on the chance that he might spot whoever the guy may be calling to. But besides a few startled onlookers, no one calls or waves back.

 

He sees Shanks looking and snickers. Returning to tending the sails, he explains, “My big brother was seeing me off. He’ll have heard it.”

 

He’s a little strange, Shanks considers, but he just shrugs and leans back on the bench. Either way, it’s not really his business. “If you say so.”

 

“I _know_ so,” the guy replies with utmost confidence—just as a sudden, powerful gust of wind catches the sail and sends them rocketing forward. With a startled curse, Shanks clings to whatever he can grab, while the guy just laughs and shouts into the wind, “ _Awesome!_ That’s really handy!”

 

As the boat practically flies across the water, Shanks can only hold on tightly with one hand and keep his hat in place with the other, while his companion clings to the beam of the sail and lets out loud whoops of excitement. Though, blinking rainwater out of his eyes, something in the back of Shanks’s mind is finding this situation very unusual: the angle of the wind hadn’t been going in that direction just a moment earlier. 

 

However, as the gust eventually calms down and the sail relaxes, the wind angle returns to the same as it was before. When he turns to look behind them, squinting through the sheets of rainfall, Loguetown is already just an indistinct shape on the horizon.

 

… Huh. Well, that was strange as all hell.

 

He doesn’t have much time to think on it more, though, because the guy is laughing, “Well, that was fun!” He plops down on the bench across from Shanks in a careless sprawl, shaking beads of water from his hair and then asking, “So, where are you heading? I’m Wyvern, by the way.”

 

… Wyvern. He’s never heard that one before. Shanks looks him over, and he really just looks like a teenager on an impromptu, solo holiday: messy hair and flowery shirt and flip-flops and all. It occurs to him then that they’re both entirely soaked through and still just sitting out in the open with no cover whatsoever—and what a pair they must make right now, two dumb kids about to catch cold in the rain. 

 

Although they parted ways only a little while ago, with a pang Shanks suddenly finds himself missing Buggy. He can almost hear Crocus’s voice scolding the two of them from afar, and Roger’s laughter at his two cabin boys’ antics.

 

“... Shanks,” he introduces himself in turn, silently pushing the memories away before he says something that he shouldn’t. He lets out a sigh and then shrugs. “And I’m not heading anywhere in particular. Wherever is fine. I just… I just needed to get out of that town.”

 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Wyvern agrees, glancing over his shoulder at the sight of Loguetown growing smaller and smaller in the distance. He then looks at Shanks again and says with a wide grin, “Looks like you found me at just the right time, then! I was in a hurry myself. Funny how things work out, huh?”

 

“... Right.” Shanks isn’t really in the mood for small talk, but the guy did let him onto his boat when he could’ve easily turned him away, so Shanks tries to keep his feelings to himself. Stamping them down for now, he says, “I guess you did look like you were rushing. Sorry if this is an inconvenience for you, by the way. I know it was… sudden.”

 

Wyvern waves off his concerns. “Nah, it’s no problem. My dad was on his way to lecture me, so me and my brother had to get out of there as soon as we could. And you had to leave right then too, so this works for the both of us!”

 

Wyvern doesn’t seem bothered to be pretty much chased out of Loguetown—or self-exiled, as it were. Or even at all burdened by the unexpected presence of a stranger inviting himself onto his boat. From the look of him, with just how easygoing he seems to be, maybe spontaneous decisions are things that Wyvern just takes in stride.

 

“Well, just drop me off anywhere,” Shanks tells him. “I don’t mind if it’s the nearest island.”

 

“Hm. I hear there are a lot of pirates around these parts, with the entrance to the Grand Line nearby,” Wyvern mentions, looking around like he’s going to spot a ship with a black sail at any moment. He then shoots Shanks another cheerful smile and asks, “Hey, think that there’ll be even _more_ pirates around here soon? Roger said that his treasure is out there—people are gonna want to find it!”

 

… So, they’re talking about this, then. 

 

Shanks eyes him warily, his frame outwardly relaxed but his shoulders tight and fingers curling. He’s heard terrible things said about Roger during the time he’d been in Loguetown, some with traces of truth in them while others were entirely blown out of proportion, grossly exaggerated to make the Pirate King seem like a demon terrorizing the seas. Those times, though, Shanks hadn’t said a word to anyone—just held his tongue for his and the rest of the Roger Pirates’ safety. 

 

But now, friendly stranger or not… At the moment, he doesn’t think he could hear a single bad word about his captain without a fight.

 

Testing the waters, Shanks says in an offhanded tone, “You don’t seem upset about that. People usually are, when it comes to pirates.”

 

“Ah, well. I would’ve liked to be one,” Wyvern says wistfully—and Shanks stares, because that’s not really something people just blurt out to strangers.

 

“The Pirate King was just executed,” he points out, ignoring how the words sit heavy on his tongue, “and you want to be a pirate?”

 

_“Would’ve,”_ Wyvern reiterates, sighing. But his grin soon returns at full force as he continues, “But not because I’d be scared of getting caught or something—that’s not a way to live! It’s about the journey, the _freedom_ of sailing the seas to the next adventure, you know?” He waves a hand around wildly, his eyes lit up. “To live your life the way you want, to the very end! No one can say that the Pirate King didn’t do _that.”_

 

Shanks is still staring, but his fists have slowly unfurled at his sides. He understands what Wyvern is talking about, and what’s more, Wyvern actually seems to _mean_ what he says. Maybe it’s said behind a rose-tinted hue, because he’s pretty sure that the guy is a civilian, but still… He wasn’t expecting to hear anything like that today. Not at all.

 

He may be taking a risk, but he slowly agrees, “... Yeah, he sure did. You know, that makes it sound like you admire him.”

 

Wyvern blinks at him, as if it should be obvious. He replies, “Well, sure. I’ve always thought Roger was really cool. I mean, he’s _the_ King of the Pirates!” His obvious enthusiasm warms him to Shanks, but then he unexpectedly adds, “Still, you hear both good and bad stories about him, so it’s all only hearsay unless you go straight to the source, right? That’s a chance I’d never get again, so I took it.”

 

Shanks opens his mouth to reply, but he finds his voice fading midway. From the way he said that just now… that sounds like _more_ than attending the execution alone. What Wyvern is implying… is that what Shanks thinks it means?

 

He has to say something. Choking back the lump in his throat, he asks, “... You’ve spoken to Roger? You’re not joking?”

 

“Why would I joke about that? I met him just earlier today, when he was still in the holding cells,” Wyvern confirms, like it’s the easiest thing to do. Seemingly oblivious to Shanks’s shock, he continues, “It’s why I had to leave Loguetown, actually. My dad’s a Marine, and he was pretty pissed that I broke into the holding cells to see the Pirate King. But it was worth it! Roger is as cool as I’d always hoped he’d be!”

 

Wyvern lets out a bright laugh, while Shanks is struggling to contain the mixed feelings bubbling up in his chest. Wyvern looks like he’s almost the same age as him and isn't even a pirate, so if _he_ was able to sneak through the Marine base to see Roger… would it have been possible for Shanks to have done it himself? Did he miss the chance to have one last conversation with his captain, without even knowing it? 

 

Did he fail him, for not even trying?

 

As these thoughts run through his head, Shanks doesn’t notice Wyvern looking at him with warm, softened eyes. But he does hear him say, “He was smiling, you know. When I had to say goodbye to him. And then, later, you must’ve seen it, too—he was still smiling to the very end.” 

 

Shanks glances over to him, and Wyvern has his face tilted up to the sky, his eyes closed and a serene smile on his lips. The rain is much lighter, now; it comes down over them both in a quieter, gentler shower than the pelting downpour of before, and he watches the droplets hit Wyvern’s face and finds that he doesn’t have the words to reply.

 

When Wyvern opens his eyes again, there’s an odd sense of nostalgia about his expression. He says into the silence between them, “That was the look of a man who lived his life with all the freedom in the world. And just think—how many new dreams started today, because of him?”

 

When he turns to look at Shanks again, there’s a certain, knowing gleam in his eyes. 

 

“Roger’s will is still alive. The new era’s only just started. How cool is it, that we’re here to see it at its beginning?”

 

There’s a chill running down Shanks’s spine, and it’s not because of the rain. He hears Roger’s voice in the echo of those words. 

 

_A man’s dream. Inherited will. The flow of time._

 

Roger did always used to say that those are forces that can’t be stopped. Hearing his captain’s sentiments echoed on the lips of a person he’s only just met… As unlikely as it seems, a part of Shanks begins to question whether this really is a chance meeting between strangers.

 

The similarities are too uncanny, too _close_ to be mere coincidence. That spark of familiarity is a fire behind Wyvern’s gaze, now—in the way that Shanks feels like he should _know_ Wyvern but can’t quite place him, no matter how far back in his memory he reaches.

 

After a pause, he finds himself asking, “This might sound kinda odd, but… We’ve never actually met before, right?”

 

Anyone else might’ve found the question sudden and outlandish, but Wyvern just snickers at him. Inexplicably, he responds, “Not in this life, no.”

 

Shanks stares. And then, despite everything, he can’t help but laugh. 

 

It feels good. He hasn’t laughed in what feels like a century, and the incessant ache in his chest slowly eases to something he can breathe with.

 

“You’re a weird guy. But maybe I am, too,” he chuckles, leaning back on the edge of the boat with his elbows. Wyvern grins, looking pleased to have made him laugh—and Shanks figures that either way, Wyvern’s not a bad choice of stranger to spontaneously tag along with. Kicking his feet up on the opposite bench, he continues, “Though, if you don’t mind me asking… What did you and Roger talk about?”

 

“Oh. I made him a promise.” Wyvern presses a single finger to his smiling lips in a shushing motion, impish and playful. “But it’s a secret!”

 

“A promise, huh…?”

 

Shanks can’t really imagine what kind of promise a civilian teen might make to the Pirate King, with their lives being so different and having met only once. But of all the people in the world to make a promise to, to devote a part of their lives to… Gol D. Roger is a good man to choose. He is, and he always will be.

 

Shanks reaches up to flick the brim of his hat, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. As it turns out… He’s also got a promise to keep.

 

Maybe he and Wyvern are pretty similar, after all.

 

“If you can’t tell me, that’s fine,” he says with a shrug. “But I can’t help but wonder… How’d you get down to the cells in the first place? Weren’t Vice Admiral Garp and one of the Admirals in the building? And, you know, tons of guards?”

 

Wyvern’s grin widens. “Well, that’s a funny story, actually…!”

 

As Shanks is soon treated to an enthusiastic retelling of a daring prison break-in, during which he can’t quite tell what’s truth and what’s embellishment for storytelling’s sake… 

 

Unnoticed by either of the two boys as they sail across the East Blue, the rain soon trickles to a stop.

 

… 

 

“Okay, I could accept deflecting bullets and _maybe_ the super speed—but _flying?_ C’mon, man, that’s a reach and you know it.”

 

“No, I’m being serious! It would work!”

 

“Then get that rubber Devil Fruit and show me,” Shanks drawls, “because I’ll only believe it when I see it.”

 

Wyvern narrows his eyes at the challenge, shooting him a sly smile. “Someday, you’re gonna look back on this conversation and eat those words.”

 

Brows raised with interest, he asks, “Wanna bet on that?”

 

“Make it food instead of money, and I’m in.”

 

Slapping a hand to his forehead, Shanks guffaws, “Of course _that's_ what you’d rather want! Fine, then—the bet is on!”

 

They’ve been debating the pros and cons of a rubber Devil Fruit ability ever since they made landfall on this island to restock on supplies. Wyvern has quite the appetite, more so than Shanks himself, so they’ve made quite a few of these pit stops already in the five days that Shanks has been sailing with him. Even if Wyvern had been sailing by himself… with the way he eats, Shanks very much doubts that he’d be able to survive on his packed rations alone.

 

As the situation stands, they’ve spent the day restocking the boat, and with evening now falling in the East Blue, they’re just meandering through the local town to stretch their legs for a bit longer. All while batting ideas back and forth about how a rubber power could potentially be used in battle.

 

He doesn’t know why, but Wyvern seems fixated on the Gum-Gum Fruit in particular. It does make interesting conversation, though, considering that Shanks has heard that most people in this Blue consider Devil Fruits to be myths—and Wyvern has developed some, shall he say, _creative_ ideas on how to utilize such an innocuous fruit. He knew it from the start, but Wyvern still proves to be an odd duck out of the bunch.

 

It’s pretty funny, though—the idea of some kind of rubber-based jet propulsion from the user’s legs that would allow them to actually _fly._ Imagine that!

 

Outlandish battle tactics aside, he’s learned quite a lot about Wyvern during the time they’ve been sailing together. For one, he’s not a local of Loguetown, as Shanks originally assumed; he’s actually from a little seaside village called Foosha way over on Dawn Island, a place in the far corner of the East Blue. From how Wyvern fondly describes it, the island is an odd mix of small town countryside, dense jungles teeming with bandits, a dismal junkyard, and a gated-off part of upscale city for the local nobility.

 

Coming from the chaos of the New World, it sounds downright quaint. Shanks would love to visit someday.

 

Wyvern’s also never even _left_ Dawn Island until he sailed for Loguetown. Which is absolutely mind-boggling to Shanks, but he supposes that this is just how most citizens live around here.

 

As they wander down the street, he glances over at his companion, who is walking beside him with his fingers laced together behind his head, whistling idly. The locals stare after them with raised brows, and Shanks suddenly realizes that he’s now matching Wyvern’s “blatantly on vacation” look beat-for-beat: with what little Shanks has brought with him still pretty damp, he’s had to borrow a shirt or two… and all Wyvern seems to have is tropical flower print. They’re about the same size with Wyvern being just a little taller, so beggars can’t be choosers, really.

 

The shirt that Shanks has most recently pilfered is a royal blue with white hibiscus, while Wyvern is in red again, seemingly his preferred color. Looking like this, they must stick out like a pair of painfully obvious tourists… which he guesses they technically _are,_ actually.

 

Shanks laughs under his breath, which makes Wyvern look over at him with a smile.

 

“What’s got you laughing all of a sudden?” he asks.

 

Shanks does his best to not make eye contact with any of the townspeople when he whispers back, “I was just thinking… Maybe this island isn’t a popular vacation spot.”

 

Wyvern looks around, blatantly stares back at the people looking at them, and responds without bothering to lower his voice, “Yeah, probably! They’re not all that friendly here, are they?”

 

At that, Shanks chokes on another laugh, elbowing him in the side even as the stares intensify. 

 

Since when has _Shanks_ last been the voice of reason? Usually it’s Buggy yelling in his ear in these sorts of situations—but, somehow, it looks like it falls to him this time. Accordingly, but through a barely-suppressed snicker, Shanks tells him, “Wyvern, you’re going to get us chased out of town!”

 

Entirely unperturbed, Wyvern just grins. “It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”

 

“Okay, now _there’s_ something I can believe.”

 

“What, is this about jet propulsion thing again?! I’m telling you, it would really work!”

 

_“Results,_ my friend—I’m still waiting for them.”

 

Wyvern sticks out his lip in a pout, and Shanks just gives him an expectant shrug in response.

 

In the things he’s learned about Wyvern, it turns out that he’s a year older than him, seventeen to Shanks’s sixteen. With how he acts, it was a little surprising to hear, but maybe it shouldn’t be; he’s strangely wise in some ways, too, as he’s already demonstrated in his words that echo the Pirate King himself.

 

He has a father who’s in the Marines, and an older brother who’s already left home. He’s got an unabashed fondness for pirates and knows all the words to Binks’ Sake, which Shanks is sure must be an utter _delight_ for his Marine father. But singing along together to that old shanty as they sailed across the sea, towards some destination Shanks has never been before… In a way, it makes him feel right at home. 

 

That Wyvern likes what he likes, remains adamantly true to himself without shame or apology, though? That speaks to the free-spirited pirate in Shanks, indeed—because that’s how the Roger Pirates lived, and that’s how he is determined to keep living, too.

 

On Shanks’ end, meanwhile… He hasn’t shared much about himself at all. With the government and the Marines surely still on the hunt, he figures it’s probably for the best: it’ll keep attention away from him, and Wyvern won’t be burdened with the scrutiny of having interacted with one of Roger’s crew. So Shanks has dodged questions as they come up, and thankfully, Wyvern either hasn’t noticed or just doesn’t care about his vague answers and abrupt subject changes. He just goes along with it with a smile.

 

The thing is… Shanks has made a new friend in the place he least expected it, in a time he admittedly most needed it, and it’s nice to have this sort of companionship again. If he hadn’t spoken to him in Loguetown… Shanks would probably still be back there, languishing in some dingy bar, obstinately rooting himself in that time and place in his grief.

 

That isn’t to say that his heart is already healed somehow, because it’s not. Just because his eyes are dry now doesn’t mean that he has no tears left to shed. He knows that this is something he’ll have to carry with him to the next moment, to tomorrow, to the day after, and who knows how many days, months, _years_ following that.

 

But it helps to have someone by his side, to share in that feeling of light-hearted camaraderie again. Even if he hasn’t told Wyvern everything, even if he’s not at his best right now, his friend just meets him where he is without question. Even when they first crossed paths, he greeted him with a smile, accepted Shanks onto his boat, and off they went.

 

And so, with the help of an unexpected friend, here Shanks is now. He has been set in motion again, putting one foot in front of the other towards some unseen, new beginning… and a part of him knows with unwavering certainty that Roger would’ve been pleased to see him doing so.

 

Shanks is brought out of his musings when he hears Wyvern let out a sudden, excited exclamation of, “Shanks, _look over there!”_

 

Blinking, he follows the direction where Wyvern is emphatically pointing and spots a building with a sign reading _BUFFET_ hanging over the entrance. He glances back at Wyvern, who is looking at him with a wide-eyed, hopeful sort of expression as he practically vibrates in place.

 

“It’s a buffet! Let’s go eat!” he urges, already halfway to the door in the blink of an eye—and Shanks has no choice but to follow. He takes off his hat and lets it hang against the back of his neck as he steps forward to catch up.

 

Well, it’s about dinner time, anyway. Shanks was getting kinda peckish, himself.

 

The moment they step into the restaurant, everyone is staring at them. Again. And just like before, Wyvern pays the locals no mind and just beelines straight for the rows of food, procuring a plate out of seemingly nowhere and proceeding to pile everything he can onto it. Shanks just shoots the room at large a charming smile and a helpless shrug that wordlessly says, _“What’re you gonna do?”_ before quickly joining him. 

 

If they’re gonna get kicked out of this town, they may as well get some food in them before it happens.

 

“I don’t get what the big deal is,” Wyvern mentions to him, a piece of meat already dangling from his mouth as his food tower grows higher by the second. “We’re just here to eat like everyone else!”

 

“Eh, don’t mind them,” Shanks replies, piling up his own ever-rising plate with a deft hand. “Doubt they get many visitors like us very often.”

 

“Well, I hope their cooks are fast,” his friend notes somewhat worriedly. He’s looking down at the rows of trays that they’ve just cleaned out. “‘Cause this probably isn’t enough.”

 

They find an empty booth towards the back of the restaurant and slide in across from each other. Once they’ve sat down, people mostly stop staring at them—though eyes occasionally flicker in their direction from time to time. Shanks supposes it’s warranted this time, though, considering how high their plates are and just how quickly the two teens are tearing through them.

 

As they eat their fill, Shanks notices a man ambling around the room, talking with the customers at other tables with obvious familiarity. From his neatly pressed chef’s uniform and greetings to the locals by name, it’s safe to assume that the guy is the owner of the restaurant.

 

Busy with his food, Shanks fully intends on paying him no mind. But he then hears the man’s voice over the other conversations in the room, loudly complaining, “These damn pirates! It’s only been five days since the Pirate King died, and they’re already showing up in droves!”

 

Shanks stills, his fork frozen in his hand. Across the table, Wyvern pauses mid-chew, eyes flicking first to Shanks and then over to the source of those words. Willing himself to move, Shanks turns his head to peer out of their booth.

 

The restaurant owner is talking to a group of older men at a table near the center of the room. One of them is waving a newspaper around, saying, “What’ll become of this town if we end up overrun by pirates?! The nearest Marine post is two islands over!”

 

The others are nodding, and the restaurant owner reaches over to take the newspaper, folding it out to show the front page.

 

It’s a picture of Roger. Shanks stares at the black and white photo of his grinning captain, and his mind feels like it’s being filled with static.

 

“Even dead, Gold Roger keeps stirring up trouble,” the owner sneers, slapping the newspaper down on the table. “A lost treasure on the Grand Line? The thing they’re calling the _One Piece?_ Bah! It’s just a lie to rile everyone up for the hell of it, and all these idiots fell for it!”

 

“And now _we’re_ the ones who gotta suffer through pirates coming into town,” one interjects.

 

“Right!”

 

“Exactly!” 

 

“All these fools are going out to find some fake treasure, while us decent folk can’t even get some proper protection? What has the world come to these days?” The man taps on the photo on the front page with one finger. Lip curling, he says, “Mark my words, Gold just said all that for one last laugh. That’s all there is to it. They called him the Pirate King—but he’s more of a liar than a king, isn’t he?”

 

The group laughs and jeers—and Shanks has pretty much mangled the fork in his hand. He stares down at the grooves left in the metal by his fingers as one of the men calls over to them, “Hey, you boys in the corner, there! You arrived this morning, didn’t you? Did you see any pirates on your way here?”

 

With his back to the group, Shanks remains unmoving and doesn’t say a word. Meanwhile, Wyvern flashes them a smile full of teeth. And even though it looks outwardly friendly, Shanks can see that that smile is a frosty thing—incredibly fake to anyone who actually knows him, but downright cherubic to anyone else.

 

The very picture of innocence, Wyvern replies with an upbeat, “Nope, we haven’t seen any pirates at all!” 

 

“Well, good.” The owner then narrows his eyes at them, glancing at their plates. “... Hmph. You two got the money to pay for all that?”

 

“‘Course!” Wyvern’s smile doesn’t falter. “Only _pirates_ don’t pay for their meals, right?”

 

After a brief moment of scrutiny, they seem to buy it. The owner turns back to the group and continues chatting with them, all the while Shanks is silently stewing. He sits there rigidly, further destroying the fork in his hand as he squeezes it, and he can still hear Roger’s name being tossed around carelessly—like his captain was just another lowlife criminal, like Roger’s life and deeds never mattered at all, like he’s not one of the best men Shanks has ever _known—_

 

Under the table, he feels his foot being nudged. 

 

Shanks jolts in place, before glancing up to meet eyes with Wyvern. His tight, pained expression is met with an exceedingly mischievous one.

 

“Hey. Finish eating,” Wyvern whispers as he leans forward, his voice low enough for only Shanks to hear. “Let’s ditch this place!”

 

Shanks stares at him for several seconds until the words actually register.

 

He sits a bit more upright, his shoulders finally loosening. Eyes lighting up, he soundlessly mouths, _“Dine and dash?”_ and Wyvern just grins and wordlessly goes back to cleaning off his plate.

 

Smothering a cackle, Shanks does the same, quickly scarfing down the remains of his meal with renewed purpose. Wyvern may only be a civilian, but he’s a fellow troublemaker through and through. 

 

_Only pirates don’t pay for their meals._ Hah! It feels good to be in like company again.

 

They finish up in record time, and with a shared, knowing glance, they both get up from their booth and casually stroll past the other tables—past the group in the center of the room—in the direction of the entranceway. They very nearly make it to the door when they hear the voice of the owner behind them bark, “Hey! Where are you two going? You haven’t paid yet!”

 

Shanks and Wyvern look at each other, then over their shoulders at the increasingly irate restaurant owner, and then back at each other.

 

With a grin from ear-to-ear, Wyvern yells, _“Run!”_

 

And so the chase is on. Diving through the doorway and hightailing it down the street, angry yells chorusing behind them, Shanks runs next to Wyvern and finally lets out the laugh he’s been holding in.

 

“Did you see his face?” he gasps out as they dodge past startled pedestrians and jump over carts in the road. “Priceless! Great idea, Wyvern!”

 

Snickering, Wyvern keeps pace with him and says, “The food wasn’t even that good, anyway!”

 

Shanks chokes on another laugh before coughing. Gathering himself, he responds, “Wow, that’s brutal.”

 

“It’s only true! I’ve had way better!” his friend calls back to him, and they both can hear the restaurant owner’s voice hollering from far behind them, _“Come back and pay, you brats!”_

 

With a bounce in his step, Shanks is ready to take off again with renewed speed—but, unexpectedly, Wyvern actually stops and turns around. Confused, Shanks slows down and comes to a stop a few paces away. 

 

“Wha—? Wyvern, what’re you doing?”

 

The owner is a few blocks down the street. He’s shaking a fist angrily at them as he runs, and there's actually a good number of people from the buffet with him. They’re well within yelling distance, if the pissed-off shouting is any indication.

 

Wyvern’s just standing there. Not knowing where he’s going with this, Shanks just looks on as Wyvern waves at the crowd chasing them.

 

Bowing low at the waist, he loudly calls out, “Thank you for the food!”

 

The owner and the people with him are all sent into incoherent sputtering. Meanwhile, Shanks once more bursts into laughter.

 

Not nearly as genuine, a grinning Shanks also bows and echoes, “Yeah, thanks for the food!”

 

_“Y-you little shits! Get back here!”_

 

Cackling, the two of them take off again, this time leaving the townspeople in the dust. It’s really not much of a chase at all, in the end. Wyvern is meeting him step-for-step as they sprint further and further away, and soon they leave the town behind them.

 

Looking ahead, Shanks sees that he and Wyvern are now heading in the direction of the coast, where they’d tied up the boat earlier that day. 

 

Night is falling on the island now. The chirping of crickets joins the sound of their footfalls against earth, along with the occasional, breathy snicker from either of them. Running away from an angry mob with a friend by his side, laughing together the whole way… It’s the most fun he’s had in a long time.

 

As they steadily make their way down well-trodden paths leading towards the sea, Shanks glances up at the stars that are beginning to appear in the evening sky, flickering to life one by one.

 

Somehow, it feels right.

 

… 

 

Later, when they’ve made it back to the quiet beach where the sailboat is tethered near the mangroves, the two teens plop themselves in the sand to catch their breath.

 

“I can’t believe you,” Shanks chuckles, panting. “The hell did you need to thank them for?”

 

“You copied me, didn’t you?” 

 

“Yeah, well. It was funny.”

 

Wyvern grins at him, leaning back in the sand with both hands as he deeply breathes in the ocean air. “Thanking them is only polite. We ate there for free, after all.”

 

“Technically, we _made_ it free.”

 

“Same thing,” he replies with a shrug.

 

“You’ve got a strange code of conduct, you know that?” Shanks sighs. But after a moment, he looks at his companion with a smile at the corner of his mouth. Musingly, he mentions, “Though, if you don’t mind me saying…? With your sort of attitude, I think you’d make a great pirate.”

 

For some reason, Wyvern seems to think this is hilarious, because he starts laughing uproariously. With a scowl, Shanks reaches over to give him a jab in the side. He doesn’t even flinch.

 

“Hey, quit it! I’m being serious here!”

 

“Sorry, sorry!” he apologizes with a giggle, rubbing at his face like it’ll calm down the wide grin stubbornly lingering there. “It’s just… I wasn’t expecting to hear that!”

 

“Why not? You wanted to be a pirate at one point, right?”

 

“Yeah. I did.” Wyvern is still smiling, even as his gaze shifts out to the water. “That ship’s already sailed for me, though.”

 

Sitting beside him in the sand, Shanks stares at him and doesn’t see how. Wyvern is only a year older than him, with his entire life still to come—and Shanks sees the yearning on his face whenever he hears the word _pirate._ Next to Shanks is a free spirit who isn’t bound by convention, who could easily set out and forge a path on the waves, so why won’t he?

 

Shanks’s eyes then draw over to the sailboat, bobbing gently along in the rolling waters nearby… and an idea, amorphous and becoming more solid by the second, is taking a recognizable shape in his mind.

 

Slowly, he says aloud, “You say that your ship has sailed… But isn’t it right there?”

 

Wyvern seems genuinely confused. He follows Shanks’s gaze to the sailboat and stares at it for a long moment, his brows furrowed in thought… before looking back to him with wide eyes.

 

He murmurs, with earnest, undisguised surprise, “... Oh! You mean…?”

 

Shanks only nods. He’s heard the story of how Roger met Rayleigh so many times, and as he and Wyvern sit together on the beach near the roar of the sea, Shanks can see it playing out in his head: what it must’ve been like all those years ago, when Roger stood on some distant shoreline with his straw hat on his head, looking at his bemused future first mate and proclaiming, _“Let’s turn the world upside down!”_  

 

That story ended in Loguetown five days ago—but at the same time, from that very same shore, another has only just begun. 

 

Shanks went there expecting to leave that island alone, but he didn’t. He’s a pirate without a crew, and maybe in another time and place he’d be more hesitant to begin again, but this is different. There’s a space by Shanks’s side that’s waiting to be filled, a vague shape that’s taking the form of a fellow adventure-seeker unafraid to seek that next horizon; it’s the shape of the person who is next to him, right here and now. It’s a deciding moment filled with unknown potential, a fateful crossroads of the present that makes him look Wyvern in the eye and say:

 

“I’m a pirate myself, you know. You should join my crew. It might be a while before we find more people to join us, but… We could take on the world, you and me. What do you say?”

 

He watches Wyvern go absolutely still. His face flashes with a series of emotions: stunned surprise, undisguised yearning, internal conflict, and then—

 

To Shanks’s disappointment, Wyvern ends up shaking his head. It even looks like it pains him to do so.

 

“I’m sorry, Shanks,” he says, apologetic in a way Shanks has never seen him before. “Sailing with you as your crewmate sounds fun, and I mean _really_ fun! But…” 

 

Although quietly mournful for a path unwalked, Wyvern looks at him with an expression of overwhelming warmth and fondness. Like the simple fact that Shanks even asked is the best gift he’s ever received. 

 

Wyvern tells him, “It’s just that… I’ve got something really important that I need to do. But thank you for the offer. You don’t know how happy it made me to hear! Even if I can't go with you, I’m really happy, okay?!”

 

With that, the moment passes. And from just the earnest honesty that’s painted all over Wyvern’s face, Shanks can only sigh and smile, a little embarrassed. 

 

Sheesh, his first attempt at recruiting someone, and he gets a no. He doesn’t blame Wyvern at all, but… It really felt like the beginning of something just then. It really did. 

 

Nevertheless, there isn’t much to do about it now. A no is a no—even a gentle one. Shanks reaches up to scratch the back of his head with a sheepish laugh. 

 

“Ah, well. That’s that. I guess things aren’t always so easy, after all,” he concedes with a shrug. He eyes him for a moment, and after weighing the question in his head, he eventually asks, “I know you said it’s a secret, but… Does this have anything to do with the promise you made to Roger?”

 

He’s surprised when Wyvern actually nods. “Among other things, yeah. It’s the sort of thing that’s gonna take a long while. Maybe even _‘the rest of your life’_ kind of while. You know what I mean?”

 

Shanks can’t help but reach back to touch a hand to his hat. He lifts it from the nape of his neck to place it back on his head. In a subdued voice, he agrees, “... Yeah. Weirdly enough, I think I understand completely.”

 

“I’m glad, then,” Wyvern murmurs. After a moment, he snickers under his breath and adds, “Y’know, I just realized something. When you make it big, I’ll get to say that Red-Hair Shanks wanted to recruit me! Well, people probably won’t believe me, but still! _I’ll_ know, and that’s… that’s so _cool!”_

 

Wyvern’s eyes are pretty much sparkling at the idea, and it makes Shanks crack a fond smile. Because Wyvern said _when_ and not _if,_ and to know that his friend believes in him so readily and genuinely is… heartening. With the future still so uncertain, it’s a reassuring thing to hear.

 

“... Hey, wait a minute, why _Red-Hair?!”_ he protests. “Well, I mean, besides the obvious. I want a cooler pirate name, dammit!”

 

“It’s the first thing people see when they look at you, so of course that’ll be your name!”

 

Shanks opens his mouth to argue the point, but he soon just deflates. God, but he’s _right._ With Shanks’s luck, that actually _will_ end up being his pirate epithet.

 

_“Anyway,”_ he pivots, determinedly pushing that thought aside. He glances up once more to the stars above them and says, “To start… I think I’m gonna stick around the East Blue for a little while. The Pirate King was born here—there’s probably lots more to this Blue than people say there is.”

 

Wyvern is looking up at the stars as well. He hears him respond, “I’d agree with that! But don’t take my word for it. It’ll be better to find that out for yourself.”

 

“Well, I found _you_ on my first try, so that’s a pretty good start, don’t you think?” Shanks grins when Wyvern lets out a pleased laugh into the ocean air. Determined, Shanks picks out the brightest star in the night sky and concentrates on its light, proclaiming, “Just you watch. Someday, I’m gonna be an awesome pirate with a bunch of badass crewmates, and you’re gonna _wish_ you said yes!”

 

He can hear the grin in Wyvern’s voice when he replies, “I’ll be waiting for that day, Shanks.”

 

… 

 

With their paths already diverging, they decide to part ways just as the sun begins peeking over the horizon. Shanks is standing on the beach, while Wyvern is in the sailboat, preparing everything for the journey home.

 

“I could still take you an island over, if you want,” Wyvern offers as he secures supplies in their places. “We didn’t really leave the locals on the best of terms.”

 

“Eh.” Shanks waves it off. “I’m not done antagonizing them yet, anyway. I’m a pirate, after all!” Looking at Wyvern again, he puts a hand on his hip and needles one last time, “You _sure_ you don’t want to join my crew? I’ll bet there’s another restaurant somewhere on this island that hasn’t heard of us yet…!”

 

“You drive a hard bargain,” Wyvern laughs—but again, he shakes his head. “Still, no can do, Shanks. I’ve made a decision, and I’m sticking with it!”

 

He sighs in defeat, idly kicking some sand with one foot. “Well, can’t blame a guy for trying.”

 

Wyvern straightens, apparently done with his task, and turns in the boat to face Shanks over on the beach. One hand is holding onto the rope still tethering him to the shore.

 

Against the reddening sky and the white of the sail, Wyvern stands in the boat and reminds him, “I live in Foosha Village, on Dawn Island. If you’ve ever got a moment, stop by for a visit, alright? I’ll get to introduce everyone to my cool pirate friend!”

 

“Somehow, I’m not sure that’ll go over well,” Shanks chuckles. “But, alright. That’s a promise, from me to you! Until then, Wyvern!”

 

“See you, Shanks!”

 

Wyvern untethers the boat and leads it out into the waves. From the shore, Shanks sees him reaching to open up the sail, before Shanks looks down at himself and abruptly remembers something.

 

“Woah, wait, Wyvern!” he calls out, one hand clutching at the hem of the shirt he’s still wearing. One that he entirely forgot to return. “Do you want your shirt back?!”

 

“Keep it!” he calls in response. Shanks can _see_ the cheeky grin on his face. “I think it suits you!”

 

To Shanks’ mortification, he actually feels his face heat up. He yells back, “Get out of here already, you idiot!”

 

Even as he floats further and further away—Wyvern is obviously cackling, damn him.

 

A little red-faced, Shanks huffs and watches as he opens the sail and lets it catch in the ocean wind. The boat glides its way to open waters… but before it gets too far, he sees Wyvern turn around yet again. He’s waving at Shanks with one hand, while the other is cupped to his mouth to carry his voice across the distance between them.

 

_“Hey! Shanks! Before I forget!”_ he hears him holler over the sound of crashing waves and gulls crying overhead. _“I wanted to tell you—your hat is cool!”_

 

Shanks laughs as he waves back.

 

“... Yeah,” he says to himself as he watches his friend face forward again, sailing off in earnest at last. “It really is, isn’t it?”

 

He stands on the shoreline and sees Wyvern off, watching him sail eastward, in the direction of the rising sun. It’s just a sliver of golden orange against the horizon of the ocean, but it slowly washes the sea and sky in the growing red of a new morning.

 

Shanks raises a hand to touch the straw hat resting on his head. 

 

In his knowing way, Roger did always used to tell them all that the dawn would someday come, and the memory makes him smile wistfully.

 

Shanks should’ve known better than to ever doubt his captain. Although Roger is gone now, his words still ring true. And even though he’s not here to speak them anymore, Shanks will bring those words with him to the ends of the earth.

 

Resting a palm against familiar straw, Shanks looks out to the ever-brightening horizon and murmurs under his breath, “... Captain, it’s a beautiful morning.”

 

And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving behind footprints in the sand that’ll be washed away before the world fully wakes.

 

The dawn has arrived, and it’s time to keep moving forward.

 

… 

 

… 

 

… 

 

Several months after the execution of the Pirate King, Garp finds himself sitting at the bedside of a dying woman.

 

He’s not sure he knew what he was promising Roger, when he agreed to look after the man’s child. As he did his own digging into his late adversary’s past, Garp’s first thoughts had been centered around what he would do with the mother and baby when he found them. Maybe smuggle them both to Dawn Island, if the mother was amenable. Besides that, he didn’t have much of a plan other than _keep them safe,_ but now… 

 

Now, there’s this.

 

The doctor said that Rouge won’t make it through the night. The sun has already set, and she holds hers and Roger’s newborn child in her arms even as she fades with the light dimming through the windows. This woman’s determination to protect her son is something spectacular, and the fact that she’s held on this long is already an extraordinary feat.

 

These are the last moments of a mother with her child, and Garp is humbled to bear witness to it.

 

Rouge’s stare had been steely and guarded, when Garp first arrived and announced himself and his intentions to her. Now, though, as she gazes down at her son, a little boy named Ace, who is nuzzled at her bosom and so very small… Her eyes are soft, heavy-lidded as she tries to stay with him for as long as she can.

 

“Garp,” she murmurs, her gaze resting unwaveringly on her child. “You have children of your own, don’t you?”

 

Garp stirs, not really expecting the question. Rouge hasn’t paid much attention to him the entire time he’s been there; ever since introducing himself, he’s very much been only a spectator throughout this ordeal. Still, he clears his throat and answers, “Yeah. Two boys.”

 

Rouge hums, one of her hands gently brushing against her son’s head. “Tell me about them.”

 

Garp sits back in his chair and lets out a slow exhale, crossing his arms. He doesn’t know why she’s asking, or whether she’ll recognize Dragon’s name if he tells her… but at this moment in time, maybe that’s not the point.

 

He’ll… he’ll keep it short, then.

 

“They’re both troublemakers,” he responds with a weary sigh. “Dragon’s my oldest. He’s somewhere out in the world causing mayhem, I’m sure. Vernie—ah, _Wyvern_ —he’s the younger one. He’s still in the East Blue, running amok in our hometown.”

 

Rouge is smiling. “The children of Garp the Hero, being troublemakers… Somehow, it sounds right.”

 

“Oi,” he protests, and he can see her smile widen ever so slightly.

 

“I wonder… will you be a troublemaker, too, Ace?” Rouge murmurs, lifting her son closer to press a kiss to his brow. “Your mama and papa like to cause trouble ourselves, you know. If you end up going our way, or even if you don’t… I only hope that you’ll be happy.”

 

Ace shifts his face toward the sound of his mother’s voice, and Rouge nuzzles against him. Even from across the room, her breathing sounds shallow and rattled. Like she’s struggling for every breath.

 

“Garp,” she addresses him again, turning a little in bed to look at him. The steel in her eyes flashes again when she says through increasingly labored gasps, “You made the promise to Roger—now, promise me. Promise me that Ace will be safe.”

 

Garp stares, and he can feel the weight on his shoulders get heavier with every word. Even so, he responds, “Yes. I promise.”

 

“... Good.” 

 

Visibly straining, Rouge settles back in bed and cradles her son as steadily as she can, even though her arms are trembling. Outside, the night drags on, and the nearby glow of a single candle is the only light in the darkened room. Mother and son are awash in orange, flickering at the will of the flame, and the image burns itself into Garp’s mind.

 

“Ace,” Rouge whispers to her child, pouring every remaining ounce of strength into her words. “Your papa and I love you more than anything. For as long as you live, never doubt that. Not even for a moment.”

 

For a long while, the sound of her breathing is the only thing Garp can hear. On the bedside table, the candle flickers and dims, before going out completely. There’s a brief scent of smoke, and the room is plunged into darkness.

 

He sits there in silence until he hears Ace begin to cry. He then stands up and, without a word, re-lights the candle.

 

He has a promise to fulfill.

 

… 

 

What the officers of Vice Admiral Garp’s platoon know of their boss’s personal life is limited. They are aware that he has two sons, though his closeness to them appears to sit at opposite ends: his eldest he seems to be estranged from for whatever reason, seldom ever speaking of him and never even mentioning his name. While in contrast, when he’s in a good mood, he’ll talk someone’s ear off about his _Vernie_ if anyone asks—and if he’s _not_ in a good mood, he’ll just complain about him instead. Either way, it’s something of a rite of passage for new recruits into their unit to sit and endure the legendary Garp the Fist talk about his kid.

 

From the doting way Garp goes on about him, they’re all under the impression that this Vernie is still rather young. And while the first son is entirely a mystery, it’s easy to tell they haven’t been on the best terms.

 

All this being said, the pile of mysteries only climbs higher when in the morning, their boss finally returns to their ship with a newborn baby tucked in the crook of his arm. Garp has been tight-lipped and uncharacteristically grim ever since they docked here in Baterilla, disappearing on the island for a time only to return like _this…_ and no one knows what to make of it.

 

They’re all staring, open-mouthed, as Garp silently boards the ship with their newest, tiny passenger, who seems to currently be asleep in their bundle of blankets.

 

“S-sir?” one of the officers manages to stammer, brave enough to ask the question they’re all thinking. “Who…?”

 

“This is my grandson,” Garp responds, much to everyone’s shock. The regular boom of his voice is absent, much lower and subdued as he looks down at the infant in his arms. “His name is Ace. He was born just yesterday.”

 

“... Ah,” the officer breathes, eyes wide and clearly taken aback. “Oh, I mean—congratulations, sir!”

 

At that prompting, the others also give their congratulations, which Garp receives with a solemn nod. It’s not the reaction they would’ve imagined for their normally boisterous, happy-go-lucky boss when announcing the birth of his first grandchild. It may just be because the baby is sleeping and Garp is being quiet for his sake, but the man doesn’t seem very happy about the occasion.

 

A few of them look around, glancing down the gangplank for anyone accompanying the Vice Admiral. They’re expecting perhaps one of his sons, or even a partner of one of the sons… but there’s no one.

 

Garp notices them looking, and with a lowered gaze, he shortly tells them, “His mother didn’t make it.”

 

More than one Marine sucks in their breath. The first officer who spoke bows his head and murmurs, “My condolences, sir,” and Garp only silently nods again.

 

Ah. So that’s why he isn’t himself right now. Of course.

 

None of them can bring themselves to ask for the details, whether the child belongs to one of his sons or perhaps an unmentioned, now-deceased daughter. He must be grieving; it just doesn’t seem right to pester him with further questions. He’s already trusted them with this much, to allow them to accompany him all the way to the South Blue, on what is now so clearly a deeply personal task—and to see this powerful man suddenly be so vulnerable is not something one can be flippant about.

 

As his loyal subordinates, they can only support him wherever they can, now.

 

“Set a course for Dawn Island,” Garp orders, and without hesitation, they all rush to obey.

 

“Yes, sir!”

 

The Marines scatter throughout the ship, readying their departure for the faraway island in the East Blue. Of the officers who remain on deck, they all can see Garp wander over to the railing, staring out across the sea and holding his newborn grandson securely in his arms. In the distance, the sun is rising, and the sky above them is slowly brightening into the new day.

 

“Well, Ace,” those near enough to the Vice Admiral hear him murmur. “Looks like it’s time to go home.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's some more drawings for this AU that I posted over on Tumblr!](https://min-min-minnie.tumblr.com/post/188795325655/drawing-dump-for-beginning-the-next-dream-or-the)
> 
> So, coming up in this chapter: Garp and Wyvern scrape together the grift of the century, and the main thesis finally appears.
> 
> Also, if you like mood music for fics, the songs "Light" and "Daughter" by Sleeping At Last are very appropriate for this chapter and this story in general. :')

When the Marine ship makes landfall on Dawn Island, most of the villagers of Foosha are still sleeping. The early morning fishermen are out on the coast in their boats, and the farmers in the fields are making their first rounds as the golden-orange glow of daybreak begins to cut through the backlit clouds. The town, however, is still and silent as Garp and a handful of his soldiers walk through the streets, the shop windows all dark and the usual chattering civilians all still tucked away in their homes.

 

The baby, Ace, is a tiny, dozing bundle in the crook of Garp’s arm, hidden beneath the fall of his jacket. Besides the Marines, no one is around to catch a glimpse of the child, but he keeps him out of eyesight for now. Just in case.

 

The few Marines he’s permitted to accompany him on foot are all carrying supplies they’ve picked up along the way here, various things needed for the care of an infant; the rest of the officers are to remain on the ship until daybreak. In all, Garp’s platoon has become quite fond of Ace during their journey, doting over the newborn who has spent the majority of his first few days of life sleeping, and they all seem to accept the baby’s sudden presence without question.

 

Garp is glad for it, because he doesn’t really know what to say if they were to ask anything more. Claiming Ace as his grandson was easy—by some twist of fate he’s under Garp’s care, now, and that pretty much qualifies the kid as family—but what to do with him now is… a little harder to come up with. He didn’t get to think this far ahead before the baby was already in his arms.

 

His tentative planning always included Dawn Island. Compared to most other places, it’s peaceful and safe, with barely any Marine presence besides Garp himself. At the moment, his most concrete plan is to leave the child with Dadan, high up on the mountain and surrounded by dense jungle on all sides—because that’s as secret a place as any for the Pirate King’s son to grow up unnoticed, hidden carefully away from the rest of the world.

 

But Garp still needs to tell his own son what’s going on. With the desperate search for Rouge spanning so many months, he hasn’t seen or even spoken to Wyvern since Loguetown. It’s been a long time since then: his younger son’s eighteenth birthday has since passed, and now it’s closer to his nineteenth. 

 

Sometimes, Garp has to wonder where all the time has gone. It feels like just the other day that his Vernie was as little as Ace is now.

 

Still. As much as Garp would rather avoid bringing his own child into this, Wyvern needs to know. By bringing Ace to Dawn at all, he’s already involved him by proximity. And if Ace is going to the mountain bandits, Wyvern will be meeting him soon enough, anyway.

 

So, the Marines’ first stop is the family house, where Garp has hastily planned the following to occur: drop off the supplies and dismiss his soldiers, introduce Ace to his son, explain the importance of keeping the baby hidden, and then recruit Wyvern’s help to deliver the supplies and Ace himself to the bandits.

 

However, like most plans he’s a part of, it goes in a way Garp doesn’t expect. 

 

The group of Marines makes their way through the town, and they soon reach the acres of farmland beyond. Along the dirt path that veers off the main road and weaves along the coast, eventually leading to the Monkey family home… 

 

Stationed by a leaning signpost is Wyvern, sitting atop a wooden fence blocking off the grazing pasture behind him. The moment he sees them, he hops down from the fence and just stands there, watching their approach with an indiscernible expression. He looks like he’s been waiting for them all along.

 

“... Vernie,” Garp breathes, because it’s already been over a year since the last time he’s seen his son, and he doesn’t know where to even begin explaining.

 

“Dad, you’re here!” Wyvern exclaims as soon as Garp and his officers are close enough. Wyvern takes a single step forward but abruptly pauses, somehow both hesitant and anticipatory at once, and Garp follows his intent stare to the lump hidden beneath the folds of his jacket.

 

Ah. Armed with his powerful observation haki, Wyvern must’ve sensed them coming and braved the early morning to intercept them. Garp can feel the very interested gazes of his officers on them both as he steps forward to finally make introductions.

 

Garp shrugs the jacket off his arm, revealing the little bundle he’s been holding close to his side. Quickly, Wyvern creeps closer and peers into the blankets—and his eyes widen.

 

“This is Ace,” Garp quietly says, while his son stares down at the sleeping baby. “He was born at the start of this month.”

 

“He’s…” Wyvern stares for several moments more, seemingly having trouble finding words to say. Eventually, he marvels under his breath, “He’s so _small.”_

 

A bit amused, Garp tells him, “He’s only a couple of days old. You used to be this small, too, you know.”

 

“... Huh. I guess I must’ve been,” he murmurs, looking honestly bewildered. Still, Wyvern seems to shake himself of his stupor well enough, because a second later he’s reaching over with both hands and demanding, “Give him here.”

 

Surprised, but not really given much of a choice because Wyvern is already halfway prying the little bundle away, Garp manages to get out, “Here, Vernie, mind his head,” before carefully transferring Ace from his own arms to his son’s.

 

Jostled from the movement, Ace stirs in his blankets, and his eyes slowly blink open to meet Wyvern’s. The two look at each other for a long moment before Wyvern finally speaks.

 

“... Hi, Ace,” Wyvern says to him, in a soft voice that trembles a bit on Ace’s name. He swallows and continues, “... I’m Wyvern. It’s great to finally meet you.”

 

Nestled in the cradle of Wyvern’s arms, Ace blinks and stares up at him… before gurgling out an incomprehensible sound and smacking Wyvern’s chest with a tiny, curled hand, right where the x-shaped birthmark peeks out from beneath his shirt. With a wobbly smile on his lips, Wyvern moves one of his fingers within reach, and Ace immediately grabs onto it with his own little ones. He doesn’t let go.

 

In silent astonishment, Garp watches Wyvern’s entire expression _melt._ He’s never seen his son look at anyone or anything like that before. He thinks there may even be the beginnings of tears in Wyvern’s eyes—and, well, to say that Garp didn’t expect him to be so affected by meeting Ace would be an understatement.

 

He’s aware that his son has interacted with young children before, the village has had plenty of them running around over the years… But, for some reason laden with unspoken significance, this time feels different.

 

No one dares to say anything and possibly break this fragile moment as they all watch Wyvern hold Ace. The group stands there in the road in silence, punctuated by the distant mooing of dairy cattle being let out for the morning… and Garp glances around at the wide, open fields before putting a hand on his son’s shoulder.

 

“I’m sure you have questions, but let’s get back to the house, first,” he tells him, nudging him forward gently. “My men here have some supplies for Ace to drop off. C’mon, you can carry him home.”

 

Without looking at him, Wyvern slowly nods, completely absorbed with the baby he’s holding. Garp sighs and keeps a guiding hand on his back to keep him from veering off the path as they walk. Meanwhile, the accompanying Marines remain a respectful distance behind them, though he can hear that they’re fervently whispering to each other. About what, exactly, he can’t tell.

 

Garp doesn’t pay it any mind. He’s instead sneaking glances at his son holding Ace as they walk home, the two silhouetted against the growing orange light of the rising sun and the purpling ocean beyond… And as strange and weighty as the situation actually is, right now all he gets from the sight is a sense of peace: the sort that he felt years ago when his own children had been born, like the world’s countless troubles have melted away until all that remains is simple, uncomplicated joy.

 

It’s nice to be reminded that this kind of happiness does still exist. He just wasn’t expecting to find it again, here and now, watching his child hold a baby as they walk home together in the glow of the sunrise. If he blinks, he can almost see Dragon in his youth carrying his baby brother in his arms with all his dutiful devotion—and when the present returns in the form of a grown Wyvern carrying little Ace with a soft smile, Garp finds himself closing his eyes with a sharp pang in his chest.

 

… Yes. Those were simpler times, indeed.

 

They make it to the house without any more words said. With Wyvern entirely occupied with Ace, Garp goes ahead and unlocks the front door, opening it for the group. Before anyone can say anything, though, Wyvern pushes past everyone and heads directly for the living room. They all can see him curl up in the big armchair by the window, pulling his knees up and scooping Ace against himself, like he’s shielding him from the world with his own body.

 

It’s a telling motion. Garp doesn’t understand why, but his son really seems to care about this kid already.

 

He watches the two for a moment more before turning his attention to his officers, who are still laden with boxes and bags and all waiting at the ready.

 

He points over to a corner. “You can put those here. And those, over there…” 

 

He doles out instructions, and the Marines hasten to put everything in order. While they’re being kept busy, Garp wanders over into the living room to rejoin the boys.

 

Wyvern hasn’t moved from his spot in the armchair. Garp finds him leaning down and gently nuzzling the top of Ace’s head, his eyes closed. Meanwhile, Ace is making soft, curious noises, and his tiny hands are grabbing at Wyvern’s chin. 

 

Wyvern doesn’t seem to mind it. Still protectively curled around the child, he barely stirs at all.

 

It seems his normally loud, boisterous son has been rendered into awestruck silence by the presence of an infant. He’s just quietly holding him close, a sense of reverence and instant affection permeating the very air around them. 

 

It’s strange… but also very sweet. Looking on with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Garp leans against the side of the armchair and just watches over them. A little wistful, he reaches down to brush his fingers through Wyvern’s hair, as he would when his boy was still little.  

 

How long, he wonders, has it been since they’ve had a quiet moment to themselves like this? With how hectic life has become for them all… it’s probably been far too long.

 

They stay this way for a little while longer, with the sounds of Marines shuffling about in the background muffled around them. However, Garp doesn’t actually realize what all this must look like on the outside—that is, until one of his officers steps into the living room and pauses by the armchair.

 

Garp raises a brow at him, wondering if the group has finished their task. However, the Marine instead looks at Wyvern holding Ace with a sympathetic expression.

 

In a gentle voice, the Marine says, “You’re Vernie, aren’t you? I’m sorry to hear about what happened to Ace’s mother. But, I would like to say, on behalf of all of us in the Vice Admiral’s unit… Congratulations on your new son.”

 

Oh.

 

_… Oh._

 

Choking a little, Garp is determinedly swallowing back _any_ sort of reaction as he watches Wyvern slowly tear his eyes away from Ace to glance up at the Marine, blinking as though he’s in a daze.

 

All he says is a murmured, slightly confused, “Oh… Thanks,” before turning back to give the baby his full attention.

 

The officer inclines his head at them respectfully, and then shifts over to Garp. “We’ve finishing moving everything, sir. Is there anything else we can help with?”

 

With a considering twist to his mouth, Garp jerks his head in the direction of the door and leads the officer there, away from Wyvern and Ace before any more comments can be made. He glances one more time at the admittedly tender scene of his son holding the baby so closely and carefully, and he tries his best to refocus on the task at hand.

 

_Goodness._ His men think that Wyvern, his own troublesome, rambunctious Vernie, is Ace’s… Well, he can barely finish the thought, it’s just too _strange._

 

Too strange and so incredibly unlikely that it’s actually laughable, and yet… As Garp thinks about it, it’s also shockingly convenient. He thinks back on the events that have led up to now, and the pieces all fall into place.

 

It seems, without even really meaning to… he’s been building up a cover story for Ace this entire time. One that his officers seem to have already accepted as truth. Even Wyvern is inadvertently supporting the story, with his oddly subdued demeanor and his obvious, instant attachment to the baby.

 

Well, this isn’t something he foresaw happening. Maybe, though, if Wyvern is willing to go along with it… Maybe they could use this misunderstanding to their advantage.

 

With his Marines gathered around him by the front door, Garp is internally weighing the matter as he tells them all, “... At ease. You’re dismissed until further notice. I’ll probably be on radio silence for a little while, but… I’ll be in contact. And, uh.” He pauses for a moment, glancing away and scratching the back of his head. “Everyone… thank you.”

 

“Our pleasure, sir!” one says on behalf of the other beaming officers. “Please, if there’s anything more we can do for you and your family, just let us know!”

 

With that prompting, the small group of Marines salutes him and then proceeds to duck out the door. They all seem proud to have been able to lend a hand, and while Garp feels rather guilty for purposefully not correcting their mistaken assumptions… He is grateful to them all the same.

 

His promise to Roger and Rouge is his own burden to bear. But, even unknowingly, having his dedicated officers around him for support has done its part to lighten the load.

 

From the doorway, Garp watches them backtrack down the path that returns to town, in the direction of the ship, before he closes the door and returns to the living room. This time, he catches Wyvern looking out the window, wordlessly tracking the Marines’ departure as Ace remains secure in his arms. When Garp steps into the room again, Wyvern immediately turns and meets his gaze directly—for the first time since they’ve reunited, he belatedly realizes.

 

Whatever daze his son was in before, it’s now dissipated into focused clarity. Without even a blink, Wyvern plainly states, “That Marine thought that I’m Ace’s father.”

 

Garp stares at him for a long beat of silence. He then sighs and plops himself down on the couch opposite the armchair, scrubbing a hand down his face. He can wager that he’ll need to sit down for this conversation.

 

Pursing his lips, Garp confirms, “Yeah. He did. The rest of my platoon probably thinks the same, too. I told them before that Ace is my grandson, so seeing you with him… They made assumptions.”

 

He’s waiting for Wyvern to comment on the word _grandson,_ and demand to know why Garp would claim Ace as family at all, but Wyvern doesn’t. He’s instead looking down at Ace with a thoughtful expression.

 

“Well… I guess we do look like we could be related? He’s got black hair like me,” is all he says—and from that, perhaps he’s missing the point. Garp decides then to just say it directly.

 

“Vernie, do you know whose kid this is?” he pointedly asks. Wyvern glances up to him again, and Garp sighs and finally tells him, “Ace is the child of the Pirate King. He’s Gol D. Roger’s son.”

 

“I know.”

 

Those measly two words make Garp’s recited explanations dry up before he can even remember them. He echoes, “You… know. I—wait, you already _knew?”_

 

“Yeah.” 

 

Garp stares at him, and true to his word, Wyvern doesn’t seem shocked in the least. He didn’t even flinch at the news, and even now, he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. Even while maintaining eye contact with Garp, he once more offers a finger for Ace to latch onto, which the baby immediately does.

 

Now that Garp thinks about it… He never _did_ get to question his son about what he and Roger talked about down in the Loguetown cells, did he? After the execution, Wyvern managed to slip away before he could corner him, and then with the search for Rouge drawing Garp away from Foosha for all these months… All this time, has Wyvern actually _known?_

 

The only thing he can think to ask him now is, “Back then, did Roger tell you?”

 

“We talked about it. You brought Ace here to keep him safe, right? I’ve been waiting to meet him,” Wyvern confirms. Despite Garp’s disbelief that his son has apparently been in-the-know all along (and because he was under the impression that Roger would take his child’s existence to the grave with him, and why would he tell _Wyvern,_ of all people, about their promise?), Wyvern goes on, “I guess I just wasn’t expecting to see Ace so… soon. What happened to his mom?”

 

At that question, Garp grows solemn. His eyes flit to Ace, and then out the window. He lets out a long breath and quietly explains, “She died soon after giving birth to him. She held him for far longer than she should’ve, and it ended up killing her. She gave up her own life to protect him, because the World Government wants Roger’s bloodline erased.”

 

“They want to kill Ace,” Wyvern summarizes in a low voice, “and she wouldn’t let them.”

 

“... Yeah. That’s the gist of it.”

 

His son is quiet for a moment, holding Ace a little closer as he digests this information. Garp watches him and wonders, then, if the blame will come—because it’s not hard to deduce what the World Government has done in its relentless purging of Roger’s legacy, how many innocent lives have been taken and destroyed in its name.

 

Dragon would certainly never forgive him. Even if Garp never actively participated himself… By being a member of the Marines, a high-ranking officer at that, pressed under the government’s crooked thumb and compelled to fulfill its bidding, no matter how terrible… 

 

In that way, he understands Dragon’s anger, takes the accusations his eldest son would surely lay at his feet with weary acceptance. His conscience sounds increasingly like Dragon’s voice these days. In hindsight, he too wonders if he could’ve done anything more.

 

By taking Ace away, by bringing him here to a place where those seeking to destroy him won’t even think to find him… He hopes that this, even in some small way, might help make up for it.

 

In comparison, while Dragon is straightforward in his anger and sense of injustice… There are times that Wyvern can be more enigmatic, less predictable than his brooding brother. He’s usually a simple creature of simple wants and needs, but other times… there’s a certain something behind his eyes that makes him look older than he is, like he’s remembering something that happened a long, long time ago. Garp would know—his generation is getting older, and he knows plenty of soldiers who get that look from time to time.

 

In a similar fashion, Wyvern always returns to his usual self eventually. But in those other moments, Garp can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. 

 

Like now. Wyvern is turned in his father’s direction, but it’s more like he’s looking _through_ him than at him. He doesn’t ask about the government’s actions, or about Garp’s part in them. What he does ask is, “What was her name? Ace’s mom?”

 

Garp blinks, because of all questions, he didn’t expect that one. Wyvern often doesn’t care to remember names of strangers and people he will never meet, but… He supposes, with Ace now here, it’s a reasonable thing for his son to ask. 

 

He doesn’t see any reason to hide it from him. He responds, “Her name was Portgas D. Rouge.”

 

“Portgas D. Rouge,” Wyvern repeats in a murmur, like he’s committing it to memory. Eventually, he nods. “Right. I’ll remember her. You remember her too, okay, Dad? Ace’ll want to know about her later.”

 

A flicker of a candle flame burns in Garp’s mind. He doubts he will ever forget the sight.

 

“Right,” he agrees quietly. He looks at Wyvern again, still cradling Ace, and he tells him, “Roger was my enemy… but his son is innocent. Like you said, I brought Ace here to Dawn Island to hide him. I was thinking to give him to Dadan, hide him up on the mountain where no one else will see him, but now…”

 

“Your guys already think Ace is _my_ kid,” Wyvern completes. He looks again at the baby in his arms with consideration, like he’s seeing him this time in a whole new light, before he murmurs, “Huh. I’ve never thought about being a dad before.”

 

The moment those words leave his mouth, they settle heavy on Garp’s shoulders, and the situation abruptly feels all too real. If Wyvern actually agrees to go along with this… the proverbial—and literal—guillotine of the World Government will be hanging over him, too.

 

It’s what Garp wanted to avoid to begin with. Giving Ace to the bandits was supposed to give Wyvern some deniability in this whole affair, should Ace ever be discovered. Garp’s involvement would be called into question, but Wyvern could still get away. Putting his own life on the line is one thing, but that of his youngest son, his own little boy?

 

He remembers, then, the way Roger looked when he asked Garp to look after his child, their eyes locked together through the cell bars. There was his usual spark of mischief, a swagger of confidence in knowing that Garp would eventually cave and agree… but there was also the silent desperation of a man about to die, shackled in place while his child’s life hung in the balance oceans and oceans away.

 

Right now, with Wyvern on the teetering edge of a decision that’ll put him in a kind of danger Garp doesn’t know he can protect him from… Garp understands all too well what Roger must have been feeling back then.

 

With these thoughts churning in his head, Garp can hear the urgency in his own voice when he says, “Vernie… listen to me. You don’t have to go along with this if you don’t want to.” He leans forward, resting both elbows on his knees as his son blinks at his grave expression. He continues, “Getting involved in this… Getting involved with Ace at _all_ will put you in danger. The government still has people looking for him. He’s going to have a target on his back for the rest of his life.”

 

“So let’s just hide the target, then,” Wyvern simply replies. “The problem is that Ace is Roger’s son, right? So if no one thinks he’s related to Roger, then it’ll be fine. Your Marine guys already think he’s mine—so they can just keep on thinking that. The whole world can think that if they want. I don’t care.”

 

He glances down at Ace’s small, round face peering up at him from the blankets, and his eyes soften.

 

Wyvern then states in complete, determined resolution: “Ace doesn’t have to go anywhere. He can stay here with me. I’ll take care of him from now on.”

 

Garp finds himself once more staring at Wyvern with shock, having good reason to do so. His son has always been wild and untamable, headstrong and reckless; he’s still young, a boy not yet even in his prime. Wyvern has always been apathetic to dating or marriage, and he has never shown any desire in having children of his own. He isn’t quite the nurturing type, either; he’s more likely to run off on his own and damn the consequences than to stay put and actually raise a child. His boy is rather like his father in that regard, Garp considers wearily.

 

Mountain bandits aren’t the most ideal caretakers, but Dadan and her gang are actual _adults_ —and they are adults who will not go against Garp’s orders. If he tells them to raise Ace, then they will.

 

But here Wyvern is, laying claim to Ace like it’s the easiest decision he’s ever made. It makes Garp wonder if he’s been planning to involve himself all along, ever since he spoke to Roger back in Loguetown. He wonders what Roger must’ve said to him: what could’ve moved a willful young man like Wyvern so much as to be willing to adopt the orphaned son of the Pirate King as his own someday.

 

But here they are all the same, and despite everything… Wyvern wants to keep Ace. 

 

“Why?” Garp finds himself asking. “Vernie, you’re still young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, to do whatever you please. Is this really what you want?”

 

“Of course it is,” Wyvern responds incredulously, like he’s offended that Garp would even think otherwise. “A kid should have a place to call home, and plenty of food when they get hungry. And people who love them, no matter what! If I could keep Ace safe, and give him all that, too…? I’d be glad to do it.”

 

Garp looks at him, dumbfounded, and yet he simultaneously feels a warm swell of pride blooming within him. For his son to be so willing to step up and selflessly take on such a responsibility, despite the danger to himself, it’s… 

 

Well. As unruly and headstrong as he is, Wyvern has grown to be a fine young man, indeed. As his father, Garp can’t help but be proud of him.

 

And, for the very same reason, he still has his worries.

 

“... Raising Ace will be difficult, Vernie. In a lot of ways. Most parents get, y’know, _some_ kind of warning before their kid arrives,” he cautions. He rubs his chin musingly and then also tacks on, “As for the _raising_ aspect, though… I’ll help you out as much as I can while I’m still here, but once I leave, I suppose you could always find one of the villagers if you need help with him. He’s still a baby, after all.”

 

“I looked after Makino when she was little. And some of the other village kids, too,” Wyvern reminds him with a shrug. “It can’t be that different, can it?”

 

“I guess not,” he sighs before warning, “Remember, though. This isn’t a temporary thing, okay? If we’re doing this, we’re gonna have to go _all in_ —Ace will be your son, and there can be no question about it. You won’t be able to hand him off to Dadan or anyone else if you back out later. Or, I guess you could, but it’ll probably look suspicious.”

 

“I’m not gonna give him away! Not ever! Dadan can come visit if she wants, but Ace lives here with me this time!” Wyvern exclaims, very much affronted, and he even draws Ace away like Garp is going to reach out and take him back. 

 

Garp wrinkles his brow on the tail end of that sentence, wondering what on earth Wyvern means by _this time_ —but his son is visibly upset, so he just raises his hands in a placating gesture. Wyvern huffs but settles down, there’s a few moments of silence between them. 

 

However, it’s quickly broken when Wyvern suddenly blurts out, “Monkey D. Ace.”

 

“What?”

 

“Monkey D. Ace. That’s his new name,” he repeats, nodding to himself decidedly. “Ace is a part of our family, so it’s only right that he gets to use our name, too. And now he matches us!”

 

And as the words leave his lips, the new name seems to settle into the air around them all. Ace makes a little sound, almost as if he’s acknowledging it, and Wyvern smiles down at him.

 

“How about that, Ace?” he asks the baby conversationally. “It might be a little weird at first, but everyone will know we're family this way! I hope it's okay with you!”

 

“Ah!” Ace replies, waving his hand around. Wyvern’s finger is still in his tiny grip.

 

Meanwhile, Garp looks on and thinks.

 

Monkey D. Ace… He turns the name over in his head and can admit that it’s not a bad idea. It only makes sense, really. It’s not like the kid will be able to run around freely with a name like _Gol D. Ace._ He supposes they could also go with _Portgas D._ after Rouge… But if Ace grows up with Wyvern’s name, instead?

 

He tries to imagine what his officers must’ve seen, what anyone on the outside will see from now on, whenever they may happen to glance in Ace and Wyvern’s direction in the future. By bearing _their_ family name and being raised by Wyvern himself, people will easily assume that Ace is Wyvern’s son by blood. They’ll have no real reason to think otherwise. 

 

Admittedly, the shared black hair _does_ help. And if Ace grows to be as tall as Roger had been… maybe they could say that height skipped a generation?

 

It makes him wonder how tall Dragon might be by now… but he digresses. 

 

Meanwhile, questions about the boy’s mother can be sidestepped, misdirected, left further to assumptions. Wyvern had been conspicuously absent from Foosha for a certain span of time to attend Roger’s execution, and the villagers will surely think that Wyvern met Ace’s mother then. He hopes that Rouge won’t mind the lie—but since it’s to protect her son, he’s got a feeling that she’ll forgive them this once.

 

Beyond all this, the fact will remain: Ace will be the son of Monkey D. Wyvern, and he’ll have no traceable ties to Gol D. Roger. The sole child of the Pirate King will be hiding in plain sight.

 

The only people who know the truth are in this very room, and the secret doesn’t need to spread any further than that.

 

“You know, if we play this right…? This may just work out,” Garp muses aloud, tapping on his chin with one finger, and Wyvern grins.

 

“‘Course it will!” he replies, all smiles and bright confidence. He lifts Ace in his arms until they meet eyes again, and he proclaims, “So, I guess this makes me your new dad, Ace! Now that you’re here, I promise that I’ll keep you safe and that you won’t ever be lonely, and I’m going to love you so much you’ll probably get sick of it! Okay?”

 

In response, Ace just wiggles a bit in his blankets. He gurgles out something that sounds like, “Awahgah!”

 

Wyvern laughs, “I didn’t know you’d be such a cute baby. I should take pictures to show you someday!”

 

As he cooes over him with delight, Garp looks on with a certain feeling building in his chest. Outside, the sun has fully risen, and soft rays of morning sunlight sift through the curtains to fall on the two of them in the armchair. Despite having only just met, Ace seems completely at ease in Wyvern’s arms… and Wyvern’s devotion and enthusiasm are so very plain to see.

 

Garp’s lip wobbles. He suddenly feels the telltale burn of a tear in his eye—because even in his obvious youth, his youngest son really does look like a new father.

 

With this, Ace is officially his son’s son. Garp’s first grandchild. He never thought he’d see the day. 

 

“When did you grow up so fast? I turn around for a moment, and when I look back, my Vernie’s already a man,” he blubbers, trying to keep from crying outright at the paternal emotions welling up from within him. “My baby’s got a baby. Where have the years gone?!”

 

“This is really only the beginning, Dad,” Wyvern chuckles. He adopts a cheeky look as he tacks on, “Or, should I say, _Gramps?”_

 

The dam of emotions is barely keeping everything in. He manages to argue, “Grandpa is cuter. Or Granddaddy? Pop-pop?”

 

Wyvern wrinkles his nose and replies, “Okay, Ace is _definitely_ gonna call you Gramps.”

 

“That’s not cute at all!”

 

Though he’d like to debate the issue further… All at once, Garp feels infinitely more relaxed than he had before arriving at Foosha. He finds reassurance in the knowledge that when Wyvern commits to something, he commits himself wholly and truly: he’s dedicating himself to raising Ace, so the child will be in good hands. He believes in that. 

 

Like this, Garp’s promise to Roger will be kept, Rouge can rest peacefully now that her son will grow up safe and loved… and Ace will be well hidden among the Monkey Family. Perhaps more well hidden than he could’ve ever planned himself.

 

All anyone else will know is that Garp’s little boy has a new baby. A rush of giddiness comes over him, then—he can’t wait to brag to Sengoku.

 

Abruptly, Wyvern goes still, and Garp snaps out of his excitement to raise his brows at him questioningly.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Oh,” his son says, blinking. “Ace is hungry. He’s gonna start crying soon.”

 

“How do you kn—” Garp begins, but he quickly realizes what Wyvern just did. “Ah, right. You’ve always been pretty liberal with your haki use, haven’t you? Sure you shouldn’t save it for emergencies?”

 

“It’s okay, I’ve got plenty to spare. And if I can use it to help Ace, then I will,” Wyvern responds, entirely unworried. He then rises from the armchair, Ace still aloft in his arms, and heads in the direction of the kitchen. He calls over his shoulder, “Your guys brought a bunch of stuff for him, didn’t they? Where’d they put everything?”

 

“I’ll show you,” Garp replies, rising from the couch with a stretch. Then, from the kitchen, he hears Ace let out a loud wail.

 

“Oh, there it is!” he hears Wyvern exclaim before his voice takes on a consoling tone. “Aw, Ace, you’ll be okay! I know you’re hungry—you’ll have something to eat in no time, alright?”

 

Ace cries, and Wyvern continues to gently talk to him as he juggles both the baby and his rummaging through the cupboards. Listening to this, Garp lets out a fond sigh. 

 

It’s Wyvern’s first day with his new son. He didn’t expect things to turn out like this… But now, their family has one more.

 

What a special day, indeed.

 

Following them into the kitchen, he cracks his knuckles and announces, “Right. Let’s get to it, then!”

 

…

 

How many, he wonders.

 

How many years has it been since he’d last seen Ace?

 

The answer is… far too many.

 

Wyvern is eighteen, already older than he’d been when Ace died. What a strange feeling it is, then, to be watching a much smaller version of his late older brother sleep in the crib next to Wyvern’s bed.

 

It had been his own crib when he was small—the last, unbroken survivor of many cribs, actually—and Dragon must’ve stowed it away when his little brother grew too old for it. A determined Garp had dug it out of storage, cleaned it off and retrieved some new bedding from the supplies he’d brought, and then lugged it all upstairs to Wyvern’s room.

 

And so here they are now. He can hear Garp snoring downstairs, where his father had passed out on the couch earlier that evening. Meanwhile, Ace lays inside the crib on his back, little fists resting on either side of his head. From where Wyvern is laying on his side over on his own mattress, he silently watches the gentle rise and fall of the baby’s chest as he breathes, sound asleep.

 

He concentrates on that. He can see it, he can hear it, he can feel it: Ace is sleeping. He’s breathing. His tiny heart is beat, beat, beating away.

 

After an entire lifetime and more, Ace is alive again. Ace is actually _here,_ and… Wyvern has to remind himself over and over that it’s real. He blinks his eyes in the dark room, lit only by the moonlight through the window… and he can still see Ace there, only a few feet away. He could reach out and touch him, and he’d be warm.

 

Ace is here. He’s really here, with him again after all this time.

 

Earlier that day, Wyvern had felt the arrival of his father before Garp even landed, as well as the Marines he’d brought with him. And then, he’d felt another presence—one much smaller, so much _younger,_ and there was only one person that could be.

 

He’d already known, without even seeing him, that it had to be Ace on that ship. Garp wasn’t going to bring just _any_ baby to Foosha, after all. But what Wyvern realized in that moment as he stretched his observation haki out to the approaching Marine vessel, to then be shocked out of his early morning bleariness by a realization filled with pain… is that he didn’t actually know what Ace’s haki presence felt like.

 

That is, the Ace he’d known. Luffy’s older brother, Ace.

 

Luffy _had_ been inadvertently using haki from time to time before Marineford… But by the time he’d mastered it enough to be using his observation purposefully, it was already too late. He never did get the chance to sense and recognize his brother’s haki presence. 

 

Or… Maybe it’s simply been so long since he’s felt or even been in Ace’s presence altogether, that Wyvern has just forgotten.

 

That feels even worse. It’s an uncomfortable, unsettling thing to realize—because this is someone he’s loved from the very start, whose memory he’s carried with him into another life altogether, and how could he _not_ recognize him at once?

 

Stricken with guilt, Wyvern tries to rectify that now. His haki rests over Ace like a protective blanket, silently memorizing what he feels like now that he’s been given another chance, and he just quietly watches over the baby as he sleeps. 

 

In a way, it’s like he’s getting to know him all over again. This time, though, it’s much _earlier_ in Ace’s life than he expected.

 

For some reason, a part of him thought that he’d meet Ace just as he’d been the first time. Like Ace was supposed to pop into existence already at ten years old, in all his scrappy surliness, just like he’d been when he first came into Luffy’s world. Of course, it feels rather silly, now—because _of course_ Ace is a baby, he was only born a short while ago—but to see him now like this, so little and helpless and not at all like the Ace he knew is… Well, it’s nothing short of surreal.

 

From the moment he first took the baby from his father, Wyvern has found himself struggling to let Ace out of his arms. To let him go, set him down, or even hand him back to Garp, even for only a moment. Once evening came, it was an ordeal just to lay Ace down to sleep—not because the baby had been uncooperative, but because Wyvern just wanted to keep holding him.

 

Eventually, his father had to intervene: _“Vernie, I know he’s cute, but you have to put him down for now. You have to sleep, too, you know. From now on, you’re gonna need to, whenever you can!”_

 

And Wyvern comes to understand that quickly enough. He’s already woken up once, alerted by his haki as Ace began to stir, to feed the baby and settle him back in his crib. He’s aware that this will happen more throughout the night, and every night for a long while, but that’s just because Ace is still very young. The problem is, now that he’s awake, Wyvern can’t fall asleep again himself.

 

Deep down, he knows why—why he’s still awake and straining all his senses towards a sleeping Ace, why he wants to keep holding him, why it had been so hard to let him go at all. It’s because of those remnants of fear that still linger after all this time; an old, deep-rooted fear that cracks open the door to memories that still hurt, maliciously whispering into the dark, _“If you let him go, he’ll be gone, and you’ll never see him again. Just like the first time.”_  

 

Even though it was so long ago now, Wyvern still remembers that moment clearly: Ace’s quiet last breath rattling loud in his ear, and his body sliding from Luffy’s limp arms to the ground. 

 

In all his years, he’s never forgotten it. _That_ had been the last time he’d held Ace—seen him, been beside him, until death snatched him away. He’d only been able to give him a wordless goodbye wretched from trembling, blood-slicked hands and mindless wails of grief… but even then, Ace hadn’t been able to hear it, because he was already gone.

 

That moment has been brought so near now, bubbling back to the surface and threatening to spill over… and yet, it’s also so far, far away. In the vision of his memories, Fire Fist Ace lays on the battlefield, bloody and smiling—but when Luffy closes his eyes, it’s Wyvern who opens them. Close enough to reach out and touch, what _he_ can see is little Ace sleeping soundly in his crib.

 

_“See?”_ he points out to the darkness, to the whispers of doubt and despair that want to drag him down. _“Ace is here. And so am I.”_

 

Like they’re both defying fate just by existing, despite the march of time and even inescapable death itself… Here they are, brought back into each other’s orbit, together again at last. Ace isn’t the same person as he knew him, but Wyvern isn’t the same person as he’d been back then, either. Even so, no matter the differences, Wyvern has missed him… so very, very dearly. Constantly, immeasurably, through the many adventures he couldn’t share with him and the many years he’s lived on without him.

 

Despite the painful memories resurfacing, there is joy to be found among it all. It’s not exactly the way he expected, but they’ve finally been reunited. Ace has returned to him. Reborn anew, this Ace is breathing and unharmed and, above all, _alive…_ and Wyvern vows with everything he has that he’ll keep it that way.

 

When he thinks of that, he’s happy. So very, very happy. So much so that the tears in his eyes blur the sight of the sleeping baby, and he blinks them away to soak into his pillow. Somehow, he’s got a second chance to live a life with Ace by his side, and he wants to make it as long as possible. He wants to do this right.

 

Ace is just… so small. Smaller and more vulnerable than he’s ever seen him. Wyvern has spent this first day with him just marveling at that fact and has found himself silently chanting _gently, be careful, don’t hurt him_ every time he reaches out to touch him. When he compares his larger, calloused hands to Ace’s soft, tiny ones, he realizes that in all his years, he’s only ever found purpose in them for fighting, for protecting. And while he won’t hesitate to use them again that way, whenever he may be called to… Now, he must learn to use them in raising a child.

 

This isn’t something his past life as Luffy ever prepared him for. He's been friends with children, has certainly felt that urge to keep them safe, but it's never been like this. He wants to protect Ace so much that it hurts.

 

He wonders if this is what Dragon felt like, raising Wyvern when he was younger. Wyvern’s only had Ace for not very long at all, but he thinks he understands his older brother better now.

 

All this being said, though… It reminds him of the other pressing issue concerning Ace’s return: the fact that, this time, for all intents and purposes… Ace is Wyvern’s son.

 

To hide him from the government and the Marines, his name is Monkey D. Ace, now. They managed to connect the dots before even with his mother’s name, so maybe the change will throw them off this time. Wyvern only hopes so. He doesn’t lie often, but to keep Ace safe? To fend off anyone who wishes him harm and keep him alive, now that Wyvern has the strength and experience he lacked before?

 

It doesn’t matter who they throw at him—however many soldiers, Cipher Pol, or even the Admirals themselves. He’ll gladly take on all of them if he has to. There hadn’t been a _Monkey D. Wyvern_ around to protect Ace last time, and it’s a role that Wyvern is more than happy to fill now. 

 

Even if he’s never actually been a _father_ before. That is certainly new to him. But he supposes that doesn’t really matter if sailing the seas and being the Pirate King never prepared him to raise a child, not just protecting them and keeping them from harm. With the sheer force of _belief_ that he’s always kept with him, in this life and the last, what Wyvern does know is this: he loves Ace, and he’s going to do his damned best to take care of him. He figures that’s as good a place to start as any.

 

Ace is going to grow up and learn lots of new things… and, past life or not, Wyvern will be doing the same, right alongside him. They’ll figure it out together.

 

What he said to his father earlier that day rings true: this is only just the beginning.

 

Wyvern swings his legs over the side of the bed and rises to his feet. He takes a brief glance to the table nearby, where he’s already laid out everything for a diaper change. A few seconds later, Ace stirs in his crib, and he can hear him whimpering, threatening to burst into a loud cry at any moment.

 

Before he can, though, Wyvern comes over and peers over the side of the crib. Squirming, Ace looks up him, teary-eyed and his little face all scrunched up.

 

Wyvern can’t help but smile. Even when Ace must be feeling rather uncomfortable, he’s still really cute.

 

Before today, he never did get to see Ace as a baby, even in a picture. He does have to admit—the real thing is much better than a photo could’ve ever been.

 

“Hey, Ace,” he murmurs, reaching down into the crib and scooping him up. Ace clings to him immediately, whining softly, and Wyvern rubs at his back as he heads over to the changing table. Before he can really think about it, he tells him, “Don’t worry, Daddy’s got you.”

 

His own statement makes Wyvern pause. The words sit oddly on his tongue, but he supposes it’s true. He _is_ Ace’s father, now, even if they aren’t actually related—and since when has he ever cared about blood, anyway? His family has always been the people he loves, and no matter what roles they’re in now, Ace is and has always been his family.

 

He nuzzles his nose into Ace’s downy hair. The baby is still whimpering, but he rests his head against Wyvern’s chest, right over the steady thump of his heart. He hopes Ace finds the sound of his heartbeat as reassuring as he finds Ace’s.

 

“Daddy’s got you,” Wyvern repeats aloud, and it sounds right this time.

 

…

 

What announces Garp’s return to Marineford Headquarters is not the radio, nor a call from the gatekeepers, nor any sign of an actual warning whatsoever. What _does_ prelude the Vice Admiral’s arrival is this: thudding footfalls down the hallways of the building, exclamations of various officers welcoming the Marine hero back to base, and that distinctive, booming laugh steadily growing louder as he nears Sengoku’s office at a rapid pace.

 

Hearing all this commotion outside, the Admiral sighs and sets down his calligraphy brush on his desk, pushing his current work aside for the time being. It’s not like he’s going to get anything done in the next half hour, anyway.

 

He does this just in time, too—because right afterward, Garp comes bulldozing through his office door, sending wood chips flying in all directions. It looks like he just slammed right through it, damn him.

 

The first thing Sengoku says to him is a deadpan, “Fix my door.”

 

Predictably, Garp either doesn’t hear him or flat-out ignores the statement. Instead, with a huge grin and arms outstretched, he announces, “Sengoku, guess what?! I’m a grandpa now!”

 

Sengoku blankly stares at him. Whatever else he’d been planning on telling Garp has just flown right from his head.

 

“... A _grandpa?”_ he echoes, very much surprised. From what he knows about Garp’s sons, from the things he’s heard over the years… it does sound rather unbelievable. “You? Really?”

 

“I know, right?! I’ve got a grandchild! It really is a miracle!” his longtime colleague laughs, tugging over a nearby chair and flinging himself into it. He goes on, “He’s a little boy, only a few weeks old, now. His name’s Ace. Monkey D. Ace!”

 

“I see. Congratulations, then, Garp!” Sengoku tells him, nodding accordingly. “This must be a very big occasion for you and your family. I suppose this means you’ve finally gotten into contact with Dragon?”

 

Garp just furrows his brow at the question. “...Uh, _no?”_ he emphatically says. “Why’re you asking? You know that I haven’t heard from that boy in ages.”

 

Puzzled, Sengoku begins to frown. He replies, “Well… isn’t he the father? Or am I misunderstanding something?”

 

“Oh! _That’s_ what you meant!” Garp laughs again before shaking his head. In another sharp veering of expectations, he corrects, “No, it’s not him. Hah, can you imagine? No, Ace is Vernie’s!”

 

Despite himself, Sengoku finds himself staring once again. So, Garp’s _second_ son is the child’s father—Monkey D. Wyvern, whom Sengoku personally met back in Loguetown. Who somehow snuck into the prison cells to see the Pirate King with absolutely no witnesses along the way, and spirited himself off the island before he could be properly questioned. And Sengoku had certainly _wanted_ to find out how the hell he did all that, but not even Garp had been able to get ahold of him… Until very recently, it seems.

 

Indeed, it’s _that_ Monkey D. Wyvern. Whom Sengoku only saw a little over a year ago, who must be around eighteen by now. Who’s only a bit older than his own Rosinante, who is out on the training grounds at this very moment and is still young enough to qualify as a child himself.

 

Bewildered by this realization, he tries to picture Rosinante becoming a father within the next year or two… and he can’t quite manage it.

 

Apparently, Garp’s boy just continues to be full of surprises. The news hadn’t shed any more light on the recent activities of the mysterious Dragon, like Sengoku had hoped… but it seems that Wyvern is providing enough twists and turns on his own.

 

Garp’s always had his hands full with those two. He’s never envied him on that front. Rosinante has usually been a mild-mannered boy growing up, and they’ve been able to work through a lot together... but maybe, just this once, Sengoku may be a tad bit jealous.

 

He’s got the idea in his head, now: Rosinante with a child of his own. It would be terribly, wonderfully adorable, really. Until now, he hadn’t considered it before… but he thinks that his own son would make a good father someday.

 

“... Well, then.” Sengoku pauses for a moment and then diplomatically states, “Young Wyvern must have had a rather… _eventful_ year, I imagine. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I met him myself. Children grow up fast, don’t they?”

 

“... Yeah. They sure do,” Garp responds wistfully, with even a sparkle of a proud tear in his eye.

 

A silence lapses between them, nostalgia on Garp’s expression and contemplation on Sengoku’s. The Admiral purses his lips, weighing his next words carefully. There have been some… curious reports regarding Garp’s whereabouts these past few months, and he wants to get to the bottom of them as soon as possible. Now, he doesn’t really want to put a damper on Garp’s paternal glow—but in his position, he has to ask.

 

Sengoku has his suspicions, and at the moment, they seem to be untrue. He hopes that Garp can confirm that they actually are.

 

He questions, “Your grandson, Ace… Would his mother’s name happen to be Portgas D. Rouge?”

 

He watches Garp go still at the name, his smile sliding off his face. Slowly, he responds, “... Yeah. How’d you know that?”

 

Sengoku leans back in his chair, watching him steadily. He says, “Garp, please. Following Roger’s death, you suddenly go on an extended leave of absence, which you never do, and access Marine records regarding _that_ issue to track down one specific woman? You took your warship and entire platoon to a small South Blue island. These things don’t just go _unnoticed._ Surely, you know that.”

 

“I was trying to find Rouge and her baby, no one else,” Garp states, folding his arms together. “We already investigated Baterilla and the surrounding islands months ago. I had a clue to where they were, so it wouldn’t do any harm to look at the files again, if it meant I could find them.”

 

Sengoku posits, “I suppose that, as the child’s father, your son must have given you that clue?”

 

“... Who else?” the Vice Admiral grouses, glancing away. His frown then deepens as he says, “Maybe, if I’d gotten there sooner… I could’ve…”

 

He trails off, looking frustrated, and Sengoku sighs.

 

He’s known Garp long enough to know that like this, he’s not going to get anything more substantial from him. Though, just from those responses alone, Sengoku feels that he has all he needs to reach the most logical conclusion. It’s not a difficult one, and he’s glad for it.

 

“I mean nothing by it, Garp,” Sengoku tells him. “Just… please refrain from using Marine resources for family issues, in the future.”

 

“Ain’t promising that,” Garp replies stubbornly, and Sengoku sighs again.

 

Softer, he says, “I did hear about Miss Rouge’s passing, though. I’m sorry.”

 

“Yeah, well. Her being gone… it’ll be harder on Ace,” Garp says in a quiet voice. But it quickly strengthens again when he continues, “But Vernie’s got it. He’s strong, and always has been. He’s gonna do a great job raising that kid. I know it.”

 

“Yes, of course,” Sengoku defers, though his thoughts are silently churning away.

 

He did say it was nothing, and he didn’t _really_ mean to accuse his friend of anything, but… 

 

In truth, Cipher Pol and Sengoku’s investigations _had_ been eyeing Portgas D. Rouge as a possible candidate for contact with Gol D. Roger. There had been rumors that the Pirate King had been spotted on Baterilla, possibly meeting with a lover, and Rouge seemed a likely suspect. When Sengoku noticed that Garp had been rifling through Marine records, in a blip of odd documentation in their bookkeeping department and rather uncharacteristic behavior for Garp at all… a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it was related to Roger in some way. True, they’d been enemies—but there had been no small amount of respect between them as well, and Sengoku wasn’t sure how that would manifest after Roger’s death.

 

His worry seems to be for naught, though. The Marines had checked all the pregnant women on Baterilla within the appropriate time frame, and Portgas D. Rouge hadn’t even been reported as pregnant then. 

 

Additionally, Garp said that his grandson, Ace, is only a few weeks old… So the timing of the child’s birth is all wrong, too, far too late after Roger’s death for the child to be plausibly his. In fact, the birth lines up much more closely with a potential meeting with a traveling Monkey D. Wyvern. And with Garp entirely unknowing of his son’s movements following the execution at Loguetown… 

 

Well. From what Sengoku has seen, Wyvern seems wily enough to figure out a way across the Grand Line and into the South Blue. It’s not out of the realm of possibility for him to have perhaps stowed away on a Marine vessel, for instance. Sengoku would’ve thought _someone_ should have noticed Wyvern, had that been the case, but then again… The young man was capable of getting to the Pirate King without alerting a soul, including even Garp and Sengoku himself, so Wyvern must be much more slippery than anyone knows.

 

Though, in any case… As odd as it is to think about, given the young man in question, the identity of the child’s father seems rather obvious in retrospect. Later, Sengoku will have to go back into the records and remove Rouge from their suspect list, but he supposes it’s for the best that things have worked out this way. The world can handle another Monkey D. running around—well, he can only _hope_ so—but another Gol D.?

 

The World Government would’ve been prompted to act, and the Marines would’ve been deployed immediately. As unfortunate as such a scenario may be, the child’s fate would’ve been sealed.

 

He glances again at Garp, knows just how joyful his old friend is with the arrival of his first grandchild, and he can feel his shoulders slump with relief. No, Garp had done nothing but seek out the newest member of his family to bring him home. Sengoku can put his suspicious to rest—because all this has had nothing to do with Roger at all.

 

He can put this matter out of mind for now. Instead of gritting his teeth and fulfilling his duty, no matter how gruesome… For once, he can share in news truly deserving of celebration. A weight has been lifted, and it’s one he’s glad to put down.

 

“... You know what? I think this calls for a celebratory drink,” Sengoku eventually says, getting up from his seat to dig out the sake stash he’s got hidden away in the office.

 

Immediately brightening, Garp guffaws, enthusiastically clapping him on the shoulder as he passes by. “Now that’s the spirit, Sengoku!”

 

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, although there’s a smile peeking at the corner of his mouth.

 

This is all for the best, Sengoku considers to himself, blowing the dust off a bottle as Garp happily roots around for cups.

 

It’s not often enough that good things like this happen. The birth of a child, the pride of a father, the joy of a growing family… They are reminders that brightness still lingers, even in the face of the ever-encroaching darkness of this world. Nowadays, with the pressures of duty growing heavier and heavier by the day… all of them need a bit of a reminder now and again.

 

Sengoku pops open the sake bottle, and as he pours it, he silently reminds himself:

 

These are the moments that are worth fighting for—what they all fight to protect.

 

“To my boys!” Garp exclaims, holding up his sake cup and once again looking a bit teary-eyed.

 

“To your family’s newest addition,” Sengoku agrees with a smile, clinking his cup with his friend’s. “Welcome to the world, Monkey D. Ace.”

 

…

 

At the moment, Wyvern is carrying his baby around the house. Not for any purpose in particular, really, but Ace seems to enjoy it. He’s cuddled against Wyvern’s chest, secure in the steady hold of his new father, and he makes little gurgling noises as Wyvern rambles on about anything and everything to him.

 

“And that’s when I asked Jinbe to join my crew,” he says, gently bouncing Ace in his arms as he ambles about from room to room. “He couldn’t actually come with us at the time, because he and the other Fishman Pirates were still with Big Mom, but we saw him again soon enough after that! It was when we were trying to get Sanji back—oh, wait, that happens later, actually. But don’t worry, we’ll get to it!”

 

Ace doesn’t really respond to that, but Wyvern doesn’t mind. Over the past few weeks that he’s had Ace, he’s been explaining to him everything that had happened after Marineford—getting Ace caught up to speed, since he’s been gone for so long. Of course, there’s no way the baby is going to remember any of this later on, and that’s just fine. It feels good to at least tell him aloud, to share those memories with him at last, to even be _able_ to tell him these things at all.

 

How many times did he run headfirst into the next adventure, feel the rush of victory or taste bitter defeat, or even just stand still with the ocean wind around him in all its wild, primordial freedom… and so dearly wished that Ace had been there to share it with him?

 

They’ve missed so many moments together. Above them all, it was when Luffy finally became the Pirate King, achieving that life-long goal he always sought after— _that_ was the moment he wished Ace could’ve seen the most.

 

So he’s sharing those memories with Ace now, starting where Ace left off, right up to the very end. Wyvern hasn’t gotten very far yet, but they have the time. He can sense that Ace likes to hear him talk, even if he’s too young to actually understand what’s being said; and so Wyvern talks, reminiscing about the past and speaking aloud things he hasn’t told anyone else in this life. 

 

It’s nice to finally share them. And they make excellent stories to tell his baby, when settling him down for the night or just spending time together like they’re doing now.

 

Leaving off the tale of his crew’s adventures on Fishman Island for another day, Wyvern walks over to a window and leans against the sill, absently pushing the curtain out of range of Ace’s grasp as he takes a look outside. It’s a sunny day on Dawn Island; he can see the fronds of palm trees shifting with the eastward wind, and the waves rolling onto the sand down on the beach. Watching how the blue waters sparkle invitingly under the sun, he wonders when it’ll be okay to teach Ace how to swim. He’s got plenty of years to go without eating a Devil Fruit, after all.

 

_“If_ you eat one, anyway,” Wyvern says to Ace. “Things are already pretty different, huh?”

 

Ace had been placed with the Dadan Family last time; Mt. Colubo had been where he’d first met him to begin with. Of course, with Wyvern now in custody of Ace, the memories that he has as Luffy won’t play out as they once did. He does love Dadan and the bandits, knows them better now as Wyvern than he had as Luffy, and even feels a little bad about depriving them of the wonder that is baby Ace. But he won’t give up Ace for anyone or anything. If that means changing things, then so be it.

 

After all, isn’t that the point of Wyvern stepping in—to change things for the better?

 

Thinking back to that fateful day on the mountain, back when he and Ace first crossed paths, Wyvern remembers just how difficult it had been between them at first. The bitterness and disregard Ace had on his too-young face when he first laid eyes on Luffy… It had taken quite a while to thaw through that icy shield of self-loathing to finally get to the heart of him. It had taken lots of real blood, sweat, and tears to do it, but it had been worth it to have Ace as his brother.

 

_Of course_ it had been worth it. Ace was _always_ worth the trouble, no matter what he may have thought about himself.

 

“Will you be icy like that again, Ace? Are you gonna make it hard for me this time, too?” he asks his baby, who just looks up at him with big eyes and chubby cheeks. Wyvern grins and leans down to kiss his forehead, adding, “You don’t _look_ like you will! But even if you do, I’ll just thaw you out all over again. I’m really persistent, you know!”

 

“Auwah,” Ace replies. It doesn’t sound like any words in particular, but Wyvern likes to imagine that it meant something like, _“Oh, I know.”_

 

He’s aware that this Ace wouldn’t, really. But with Wyvern here to raise him this time, he’s sure he’ll learn that again soon enough.

 

Ace is his _son_ now. And Wyvern is his father. It’s all so new, and it makes him wonder just how much his presence in Ace’s life will change things, how different _Monkey D. Ace_ will turn out to be from _Portgas D. Ace._ He thinks of that boy he’d first grown up with: how Ace had barely tolerated physical affection of any sort, being more inclined to pry his little brother from his person than to hug him back. So, just in case he turns out the same way this time, Wyvern is determined to give him tons of hugs and kisses while Ace still wants them.

 

Thinking of that, he cuddles his baby close, remembering how _lost_ the Ace he’d known used to be. Even as a child, he was always searching for that overarching purpose to his life, restlessly seeking out that sense of _belonging_ he’d always craved.

 

He’d found it, in the end. Choked out a _thank you for loving me_ that didn’t need to be said, but was heard and cherished anyway. Wyvern just wishes Ace could have had more time to enjoy the happiness he’d found for himself. It was all cut far too short.

 

“... I’ve missed you. Have I told you that yet? I’m glad you’re here,” Wyvern murmurs, and Ace grabs onto the collar of Wyvern’s shirt in response.

 

He hadn't been able to put it into words back then, when Luffy was small and confronted with the true depth of his brother’s pain, but Ace had been so very starved of love. Wyvern understands that now—and so he vows that it won't be like that this time, that Ace will know how much he's wanted from the very beginning, that it will never get to that point where Ace has to look him in the eyes and ask, _“You want me to live?”_

 

Wyvern holds his baby, thinks of him someday crumbling beneath that bleak desolation, and it’s terrible. Unimaginable. He can't let that happen to Ace again; he's suffered enough already. Ace deserves so much more than he'd been given.

 

Wyvern blinks away the sudden moisture in his eyes and meets the unknowing gaze of this world’s Ace, still so very small and vulnerable. He holds him protectively and brushes a hand through his wisps of dark hair.

 

“Hey, Ace, there's something I didn't get to tell you last time around. So I'll tell you now, and as many times as you need to hear it,” he says to him seriously. “I love you. I love you so much. You’re going to live longer than me this time, okay? I'll be the one to protect you now.”

 

Ace only looks at him without any real comprehension, just cooing out sounds in response to being spoken to, but that's okay. Wyvern will help him understand as he grows up.

 

Thinking of how Ace’s life will change from here on out, Wyvern soon turns that gaze on himself. When he compares his own two lives, they really couldn't be more different. When Wyvern was this age before, he'd been a pirate preparing to enter the New World, eagerly awaiting to reunite with his crew and continue on their adventure towards Raftel. But this time, he's still in the East Blue, a civilian remaining in Foosha Village as a father of one. 

 

As strange and disparate as this new life of his is, Wyvern is satisfied. He’s gone on the free-spirited pirate’s adventure before, could head straight to Raftel and claim the One Piece again if he really wanted to, but where’s the fun in that? Where’s the mystery, the spark of life’s romance in sailing into the unknown?

 

“You’ll get to experience it all with fresh eyes, huh?” he tells Ace, a smile once more forming on his lips. “There’s so much waiting out there for you to see. You’re gonna have a lot of fun!”

 

As for Wyvern… The unknown is right here, in a little boy whose life has just begun, whose fate Wyvern has vowed to change.

 

Straw Hat Luffy lived and died for his dream, and he was happy to do so. The man Wyvern used to be had been the captain of a pirate crew, the leader of a grand fleet. He led them wherever he desired, and they followed him willingly—put up with his whimsies, scolded him when he was stupid, stayed by his side through hell and high water to help him see his dream through to the end.

 

When all is said and done… A crew is just another kind of family, isn’t it? 

 

Wyvern holds Ace close, kissing his son’s cheek and feeling those little hands curled into the collar of his shirt. Ace isn't a pirate just yet, but Wyvern thinks that the comparison is still valid. 

 

Wyvern’s had his grand adventure already. He’s had his turn to live for his own dreams. So now, when he looks at his son’s face gazing back at him, the former Pirate King thinks he can learn to live for someone else’s.


End file.
